light a match, burn the world to ash
by Tarafina
Summary: When Slade comes for Team Arrow, he's unforgiving in his relentless pursuit for revenge. In the end, however, he shouldn't have underestimated Felicity Smoak. [3-parts]
1. Part One

**title**: light a match, burn the world to ash (I will watch it die, and hold your hand as I fly)  
**category**: arrow  
**genre**: tragedy/romance  
**ship**: felicity/oliver  
**rating**: r  
**prompt**: olicity + revenge + happy ending optional - anonymous (Tumblr)  
**warning(s)**: major character death, coarse language, sexual content, explicit violence**  
word count**: 6,278  
**overall status**: complete  
**summary**: When Slade comes for Team Arrow, he's unforgiving in his relentless pursuit for revenge. In the end, however, he shouldn't have underestimated Felicity Smoak.

**_light a match, burn the world to ash (I will watch it die, and hold your hand as I fly)  
_**-1/3-

**re·venge** [ri-venj] v. _to exact punishment or expiation for a wrong on behalf of, especially in a resentful or vindictive spirit._

**I**.

Felicity never liked those movies that began with the death of the wife or girlfriend only to lead in to some hugely defining plot where the male character's motivations were all about revenge. Mostly because it felt like kind of a rip-off that the only significant female character was reduced to over-bright flashbacks where they barely spoke and an invisible halo hung over their head. What bugged Felicity more was that she never saw the opposite, of a woman avenging a lost husband or boyfriend. Or, if she did, it was rare and never as hyped up as the testosterone driven action-fest. _Manpain_. Apparently it sold well in theaters? In any case, she wasn't buying it.

She understood vengeance from an objective point of view. Kind of like when she was a little girl and a kid on the playground in preschool stole a toy from her, deciding he was superior and therefore entitled to that toy more. She later smacked him in the face, stole back her toy, and he never came near her again. Just desserts, to her four-year-old thinking.

Even if she didn't like the movies, she understood why others might. That all-consuming love of someone that drove their partner to reduce the world to ash in the wake of their loss. That was powerful stuff, moving even. But those movies usually lacked any basis for the 'why.' Why did this person matter so much? What made their love special? What made them worth the death and decay of everyone else? Why should she root for murder and destruction just because this man was grieving?

The thing was, she'd never really felt loss to any primal, deafening, terrible degree before. When her father left, there was a hole carved into her childhood, a fear that she wasn't enough, a question of whether it was her fault. As she grew up, these thoughts ebbed and flowed, sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker, occasionally depending on her teenage angst level. But then she became an adult and she started building a life of her own, and she decided 'screw that guy' because he _chose _to leave and, while she didn't choose to be left behind, she could choose to get past it.

It helped that she had a good circle of people around her, a family of her own design. And maybe then she started to get that idea a little more, of loving someone so much that she could burn the whole world down to keep them safe. Maybe she understood it in that distant way people do when they see something and they can find some piece of logic in it, but have never been faced with enough tragedy to put it to the test.

But then tragedy came knocking, and she answered.

* * *

Roy was the first to die.

Felicity watched from her safe haven, hidden away in the foundry like it was her own personal bunker. She was glued to the screens around her, having tapped into every street camera available, to see the show down between Slade and her team.

Roy wasn't supposed to be there. She could still hear Oliver's voice shouting, echoing off the walls, telling him that he wasn't ready, super-infused with mirakuru or not. He was young and untrained and too quick to react without thinking. The others had agreed and Roy had stalked off, muttering under his breath that they didn't trust him, that he was tired of learning and never doing.

He'd shown up on the scene ten minutes earlier, getting in the middle of a fight Oliver was losing and that Sara and Digg had already been dispatched from, lying in a barely conscious heap nearby. Roy took a blow to the shoulder that would have likely shattered Oliver's jaw had it actually landed. Roy was stronger, he healed faster, and he took over the fight, deciding he was a better match for the crazed and vengeful Slade Wilson.

He was wrong.

Felicity watched in horror as Slade's victory roar echoed in her ears, sending a chill down her spine, and Roy's young, battered face cleared of its former rage and triumph, coiled in fear, his eyes wide with knowing. And then his head was twisted from his body like the cap from a bottle.

Slade laughed as he defeated him, his head thrown back in amusement, an unnatural, malicious glint to his remaining eye. The mirakuru circulating through Roy's veins could offer no cure for this, his head bouncing off the pavement as it rolled toward the remaining soldiers of Team Arrow.

Felicity's hands pressed to her trembling lips to keep the cry from leaving them, but they couldn't hide it entirely.

He was so young.

He was just a boy.

He was never meant for any of this.

Blood staining his front, Slade took a step toward the remaining three, all of whom were in a state of shock, bloody and broken, barely keeping up on their feet as it was.

She watched Oliver fall to his knees, his horrified eyes centered on Roy's departed head, his hands hanging limply at his sides.

Swallowing back her grief, Felicity suddenly spoke, closing her eye against the tremor of her voice. "Get up," she ordered.

He didn't listen.

"Oliver, listen to me. He _will _kill you. Get. Up. You need to leave, _now_."

"Roy," he rasped.

She inhaled sharply through her nose and dashed away the tears on her cheeks. "We'll come back for him… and we'll make Slade pay. But not now." Her head shook as she folded her lips to keep a cry from escaping. Swallowing thickly, she told him, "I'm sorry, but you need to get up… Come _home_, Oliver."

He raised his chin, his eyes finally settling on Slade, looking oh so triumphant.

When Sara and Digg reached for Oliver's arms to haul him to his feet, he yelled. He screamed his defiance and his rage and his hatred for the man in front of him.

And, like a tidal wave in answer to an earthquake, Slade roared right back.

But Oliver lived that day.

Sara and Digg lived, too.

For a while.

* * *

Roy Harper was found decapitated in the Glades. He was buried on a Tuesday. Thea was so deeply entrenched in her anguish that she didn't notice her brother swiping away tears of his own as he held her up, feet from the casket that held his friend and protégé. Guilt ate at the already frayed edges of him, chewing away at the hope he'd once had that he could save Roy, he could give him a better life, a focus and goal to aim for. That dream was in tatters at his feet and it was clear that he wouldn't be recovering any time soon. But still he stood solid, keeping his sister from falling apart entirely, a pillar for her to hold onto.

Felicity stood with Digg, separate but still a part of it all.

She stared at the blown up photo of a grinning boy just to the right of the coffin. A picture Thea took of him, she was sure. He only really smiled like that around her, the hard lines of a tough life smoothing out until they were nearly gone.

Felicity swiped away her own tears, but refused to look at the shiny, black casket, keeping her eyes on his smiling face, willing herself to remember only that, and not the gruesome, distorted face of fear that was left behind when Slade had plucked his head so casually from his shoulders.

Digg's hand landed on her shoulder, squeezing in support.

She wondered if he was successful in scrubbing the image from his brain, but she never asked. None of them wanted to talk about it, a heavy silence pervading the foundry as the loss of a team member, a friend, rung all too loud in the space he used to occupy.

She never looked at the casket, not once. Only the picture, the smile, the boy who could have had a much better, brighter future than this, but now, never would.

* * *

Sara was next.

A long-coming 'choice' that Felicity was sure Slade had been planning for some time.

She hadn't expected to be the other one kneeling in the dirt, but there she was, with her arms tied at her back. Her hair was plastered to her face from the cold sweat collecting on her skin. Her glasses sat askew on her nose, knocked off balance when she was shoved to unceremoniously to her knees. She looked around, scared but desperate not to show it. Sara was beside her, far more secured with manacles holding her feet together and multiple ties to keep her arms from getting loose. Felicity might have felt a little insulted that she barely registered for a zip-tie on her wrists if she wasn't well aware that Sara was far more capable of getting herself out of these situations. But the Sara she knew was not the one kneeling beside her.

Sara had been beaten, her face mottled with bruises, dried blood beneath her nose and crusted around various cuts to her face, neck and arms. She was leaning to one side and she kept giving her head a shake as if to clear it. Her clothes and hair were stained with blood, some of it still wet while others looked much older. She'd been with Slade longer, though, so maybe that made sense. Felicity had been picked up yesterday night, but they'd been searching for Sara for almost a week. It looked like Slade had been exacting his own form of revenge. For Shado, Felicity assumed, but couldn't help but think it was a hollow victory for a woman who probably wouldn't want to see anyone beaten and blamed for her death.

When Oliver stood before them, his bow gripped tight in his hand, Slade's mocking laugh filled the space behind her and Felicity's shoulders tightened automatically. This man was deranged, yes, but also extremely devoted to his mission, which made him that much more dangerous. He was highly trained and seemed to have planned for any event. That, to her, was terrifying. Felicity was the brains of the outfit, but Digg was the strategist, and she wondered where, exactly, Slade fell. Was he both? Did he have her intelligence, coupled with Digg's brain for knowing his foes, for planning ahead and understanding the motivations and tactics of others? A maniac was dangerous, but she was beginning to think sociopath might fit Slade better.

"You don't have to do this," Oliver yelled, his voice thick with worry and anger.

"Oh, but I do, brother… We were always leading back here, weren't we?" Slade held his hands out. "Consider it a blessing you get a choice at all. I could just as easily take her from you without giving you a chance to save her. What then, huh? Your bird lives to fly again, but your heart gets buried. Maybe then you'll know, won't you? You'll understand why all of this matters. Why I've gone to such great lengths to put what happened right."

"This isn't _right!_ Shado wouldn't want this!"

Slade lunged forward a step, his voice hoarse, "Shado didn't get a choice! If she had been the one to choose who lived and who died, this one would be dead, as she should be!" He shoved his gun at Sara's head, pressing so hard that she fell a few inches to the right. "So you get _one chance_, brother. One chance to put this right. Let her die. Put her down like you should have the second she stepped on that island."

Felicity cringed as Slade's knuckles dragged down her cheek, his fingers sliding under her chin and tipping it up. He turned to look down at her searchingly. "What do you think, hm? Do you think he'll save you, dear one?" He rubbed his thumb under the curve of her mouth. "Hope hard, because his track record isn't encouraging, is it?"

Felicity blew out a heavy, shaking breath through her nose and then she glared up at him. "Screw you," she bit out.

He grinned savagely, cupping her cheek and tipping his head as he took her in. "You do have good taste, Oliver, I'll give you that. Do you know what your mistake is, though?" He shoved the gun hard against Sara's head once more. "The good ones always choose you, and you never choose them back."

There was a noise behind them and Felicity went still. Digg? Had Digg come as back-up? Hope bloomed in her chest.

"Don't get _too_ trigger-happy, Mr. Diggle. In the time it takes for you to shoot, Miss Lance will have a bullet in her brain and Felicity here won't come back from a broken neck."

In answer, Digg stepped from the shadows, his expression dark with intensity, his gun held steadily.

"Your choice, Oliver," Slade yelled, swinging his gaze back to Oliver, in his leathers, his chest heaving, his free hand curled in a fist, finger picking at his thumb. "Or must I make it for you?"

Oliver's eyes bounced between the two women, his brow furrowed. "I didn't choose Sara over Shado. He was going to shoot her. I just got in the way. I offered myself but Ivo thought… He thought I picked Sara. Please, Slade… Don't do this." His voice was hoarse, like gravel. "There's been enough death."

"There will never be enough," Slade argued, his eyes slitted and his mouth set in a firm line. "Today I offer you a reprieve. One life for one death. But I won't always be so generous. So pick, Oliver; show them who you really are."

His hand wound itself around Felicity's throat and squeezed.

She choked, her eyes widening, and lurched forward, struggling to get her arms free, to pull herself from Slade's grip.

"Oliver!" Digg exclaimed, raising his gun another notch.

Slade shook his head. "Ah, ah," he tsked, his gun settling on Sara's temple.

Diggle's eyes fell to Felicity; she could barely see him as her eyes began to swim with tears. She could feel it as her face began to warm, to change color, taking on a deep red shade as she desperately tried to pull in air but couldn't.

Swearing under his breath, Digg shouted, "_Oliver!_"

Felicity closed her eyes, tears tripping down her cheeks. She couldn't hear anything over the rush in her ears now. Her heart speeding up and her mind screaming at her to _breathe! Fight! Live!_

She heard the gun go off, however.

Her eyes shot open in shock.

And then the hand was leaving her throat and she was falling forward, coughing and choking.

Oliver skidded in front of her on his knees, his bow falling from his hand as he caught her. She felt the leather of his gloves on her cheeks, cupping her face, holding her up as her chest met his.

"I've got you, hey, you're okay," he said, but she could hear the hitch in his breath as he cried. He cradled her head on his shoulder, turned so she couldn't look to her right. He wrapped an arm around her, wound so tight it almost hurt, and rocked them a little, side to side. "I got you, you're okay, you're okay, you're alive," he told her, over and over, his mouth brushing her hair.

She cried, shaking as she let the whole of her weight rest against him.

She could hear the scuffling of feet as Digg checked on Sara, but they knew, they all knew, she was gone. She was dead.

Felicity wasn't sure what happened to Slade. Did they choose not to attack him because he still had her? Were there others? She wasn't sure. All she knew was that Sara was dead and Slade had won, again. He'd killed and walked away unscathed, leaving them to pick up the pieces of a further fractured team.

Digg cut the ties from her wrists and she whimpered as his warm hands rubbed at the raw skin.

Minutes passed before eventually Oliver gathered her up in his arms and placed her in Digg's, telling him to bring her back to the foundry. Exhausted, she laid her head on John's shoulder and watched through bleary eyes as Oliver turned to Sara, a limp mess of blonde curls soaking in her own blood. He dropped his face to Sara's head and cried for a moment, his shoulders shaking, until eventually he slid his hands under her and lifted her from the ground.

Would he bury her? Felicity wondered. Would he take her to her father? Would she have a proper burial with her family? Would the headstone that rested in the cemetery with her name finally have a body to fill the empty space beneath it?

Felicity's heart burned and ached and she cried for the woman who had taught her to fight, to defend herself, to believe in herself beyond the title of IT Specialist or Executive Assistant. She cried for the woman who encouraged her to have a life outside the team. Who took her out for karaoke nights and shots and pointed out cute boys she could take home for some stress relief. She cried for her friend.

Sara was second, but she wasn't last.

* * *

Felicity stood atop a grassy hill in the Starling City cemetery, watching as the Lance family fell apart, leaning on each other, clutching to one another, as they buried Sara for a second time. Oliver stood nearby, but not too close, as if he didn't believe he deserved to be there, to grieve with them.

Felicity's arm, wrapped around Digg's, squeezed.

"Do you think it's too much to ask for a second resurrection?" she wondered quietly. "Or is it a third…?"

He looked down at her, a sad smile playing at his lips. "I don't think we're gonna get one this time around."

Her mouth turned down as she shook her head. "I know it's silly and I know it makes no sense, but sometimes I watch for shooting stars and I wish, you know, like you would when you're a kid and you still kind of believe in magic and hope and all of those things that kids don't really need proof for… And sometimes I wish things were different, that maybe Oliver never got on the boat or maybe Rebecca Merlyn never died or that Slade _had _died. But then I wonder if it's selfish, only to wish for things that directly affect me and the people I care about." She frowned. "Do you think that's selfish?"

"No." He gave her arm a little shake. "I think it's human."

Nodding faintly, she leaned over to rest her head on his arm. "Do you ever wish for anything, John?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I wish for a lot of things."

He didn't tell her what, but she could imagine. That his brother was still alive, that the men he served with were too, that this city-wide war wasn't necessary, that Slade Wilson wasn't someone that existed, that Roy and Sara weren't casualties of his, etcetera, etcetera.

Closing her eyes, she sent up one more wish.

For thirteen months, she convinced herself her wish had been fulfilled.

It wasn't.

* * *

Felicity knew she would never be the same when she lost Digg.

It was naïve, of course, to believe that somehow, despite everything, her and her boys would survive whatever came for them. Of course, their track record, despite being pretty beat up, did say wonders for their resilience. But nine lives ran out quick, and so did their luck.

Felicity would run herself into the ground wondering if there was something she could have done to save him. Something she could have said or some option she could have given him that would have saved his life. Maybe if she'd said 'go right' instead of 'go left' or maybe if she'd talked him out of going out at all that night, they wouldn't be here.

It'd been a year since Sara's death and they'd neither seen nor heard a whisper of where Slade might be. For the first month, Oliver had been inconsolable. He'd been running himself and their team ragged trying to track down where Slade might have gone to. There were no records of him leaving Starling, but no sign that he was anywhere to be found within city limits either. He was like a ghost. Which was a terrible analogy considering the circumstances; Oliver was haunted enough by far too many.

Balancing his vendetta with Slade against Queen Consolidated and then his terrible relationship with his mother and his complicated relationship with his sister, who was still grieving Roy and desperate to find out what had happened and how, it was just a race against time and people that none of them were winning. Thea was searching for Arrow, certain that he had some hand in Roy's death. Moira was a double agent of degrees Felicity had trouble following. Where did she fall these days? Good or bad or ambiguous? Nobody really knew. Some days, Felicity wasn't sure the Queen matriarch even knew.

And then one of her alerts popped up, informing her that Slade had been spotted and she had a location on the outskirts of Starling. Digg and Oliver had suited up, wasting no time, ignoring her protests.

"You don't think this is suspicious? We don't get anything on him for over a year and now, suddenly, he's just caught by one of the cameras?" she yelled after them, ringing her hands.

"He slipped up," Digg told her, sliding his gun into his holster; one of far too many for her to count. "They always do."

"Not him. Not this time." She reached for his hand and pulled him back. "Please, John, listen to me… I have a bad feeling about this."

He took both of her hands and squeezed, sighing as he looked down at her. "Slade Wilson is dangerous. If we let this chance pass and he continues to hurt people, we're always going to regret it." He shook his head. "We're not going in blind, all right? We'll have you."

Shaking her head, she blew out a heavy breath. "I can't protect you from here. I can guide you through the building, I can point out heat signatures, but I can't get into his head."

"No, but I can," Oliver piped up, walking toward them, looking lethal and ready. He'd already put on his Arrow mask, and she didn't meant the one Barry had given him. His face was all hard edges, shadows and hollows, a glint in his eyes that demanded blood. She desperately wished for the times when his guard was low, when he let them in, when he'd sit down with her on the mats and tell her about how guilty he felt, and how terrified he was of losing her and Digg and Thea. And his mom, of course, but most nights her name went unsaid, his confusion over how to feel about her and her involvement still too fresh.

"Oliver, I know you think this is necessary. I know you think this is your fight or your fault, but there is a point where you need to accept that maybe this fight isn't just yours." She stared up at him searchingly before adding Digg into the mix. "Both of you are fighting this, fighting _him_, and you think you'll win, eventually, but you don't _know_. All I've seen is him win and win and every time he does, he chips away at who you are, who _we _are, and I'm just scared that one day there will be nothing left."

Her mouth trembled and tears filled her eyes.

Digg reached for her first, pulling her into a warm, brotherly hug. "We agreed, when we started his, that we would do what needed to be done. We save people. We fight against injustice. Slade Wilson has done nothing but destroy… It's time we do the same to him." He kissed the top of her head and squeezed her.

"Promise me you'll come back…" She wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. "_Promise me_."

He sighed. "You know, you get more and more demanding, Smoak. I ever tell you that you nag worse than a wife some days?"

Raising her head, she pursed her lips at him, determined to get what she wanted. "You're not going to distract me, John Diggle."

A muscle ticked in his jaw before he gave her a short nod. "All right." He looked her in the eye and told her, "I'll do everything I can to come back."

It wasn't exactly what she wanted to hear, but it was as close as she would get. "Okay."

He squeezed her shoulder then and took a step back. Casting one last look at Oliver, he moved away to finish getting his supplies ready. "We leave in five."

Oliver nodded shortly before turning back to Felicity.

She looked up at him and let out a faint smile. "That goes for you too, you know." She reached for him, smoothing a hand down the front of his leathers and focusing her gaze on the zipper, her brow furrowed tightly. "I want both of you to come back. I don't… I don't want to bury any more friends, Oliver."

"_Hey_…"

Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet his.

"I'll always come home to you," he told her.

She shook her head. "You don't know that… I know I made John promise, but it's stupid, it—it's desperate, because I know that both of you will try to win. You'll try to live. But that doesn't always mean you will." She shrugged a shoulder as a tear dribbled down her cheek. "Roy tried, Sara too, but they lost. They…. Just, don't underestimate him, okay? If you think you're losing— if you think there's even a _chance _you won't win, then you get John and you get out… Do you understand me? No heroics. No last ditch efforts to be the hero. You get out!"

Oliver covered one of her hands over his chest and squeezed it before his other hand reached for her, her cheek fitting into his palm like it always did. She leaned into his touch, resting there a moment. When she looked up at him, his expression was fierce, not with rage or fear like it had been for so long. But with a shadow of who he used to be, of the man who had pulled himself up out of purgatory and survived. Before the ghosts of his past crept out of every corner and converged on him with a vengeance. This was _her Oliver_. The man she'd missed for so long, only getting peeks at him here or there.

He leaned forward then and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering for a breath, and then he touched his head to hers and stepped back, his mask back in place.

Felicity took a deep breath and reached for the Bluetooth in her ear, turning it on. "Ready?" she asked.

Oliver picked up the Arrow mask on the table beside him and slid it on. "Ready."

As he and Digg left, she watched them climb the stairs, a shard of ice in her heart that feared she wouldn't see them return.

She should have listened to it.

They drove out to the warehouse separately, Digg in the car and Oliver on his bike. They entered the building from opposite vantage points and, from there, it was chaos. The building, which once had only one heat signature besides Oliver and Digg's, suddenly exploded with color. They were everywhere. And it was all a trick. When she told them there were signatures coming up on them, they'd turn a corner to find no one. Somehow, Slade had set it up so they were going in blind. She could tell them where to turn to get to where the original heat signature was, but there was no telling if it was still there, or if it'd all been a set up.

She was useless.

All she could do was direct Digg and Oliver from the signs they gave her of where they were, but it was difficult. She brought up a separate set of schematics for the warehouse and guided them through the halls.

When Oliver ran into trouble, a pit formed in her stomach. People were there, but how many and how prepared?

Digg didn't have the same problem. He was moving through the warehouse with suspicious ease, which is when something began to gnaw at the back of her mind.

"Digg, turn left. You need to get out. Circle back. Get out. It's too easy."

There was a pause and then, "Copy."

Did she lead him to his death? She would always wonder that.

"_Pleasure to meet you again, Mister Diggle_," Slade Wilson greeted. "_I'm only too sorry about the circumstances. But, I suppose, this was always inevitable._"

Felicity's heart lodged itself in his throat.

"John," she whispered.

"Diggle," Oliver yelled. "Felicity, where is he? How far am I?"

She squeezed her eyes shut for just a split second. Because he was _too far_. Still, she opened her eyes and guided him anyway. Oliver was fast. Unnaturally fast some days. If he needed to get there, he would. He would, he would, he would.

"Suppose it was," John answered. "Can't say I'm too sorry about it. If there's one tick in my ledger I'll be happy to have, it's gonna be you."

Slade's dark laughter filled her ears. "_Do you know why I like you_…?"

"My dry wit?" Digg returned.

"_Your loyalty… You see, Oliver has always been so good at finding loyal people to stand at his back. It's unfortunate that he doesn't return the same when needed_."

John hummed. "I'll have to disagree with you on that point."

"_Oh, I'm sure you do. But there's a whisper in the back of your head, isn't there? The one that goes through each time he failed you. Each time he said he'd be there and wasn't. It was Deadshot, wasn't it? That killed your brother. And Oliver, he had a chance to help you with that, didn't he? But there's always a _Lance_ around to spoil things… If you want to talk to me about Oliver Queen and loyalty, let's not overlook how quick he is to throw his friends under the bus when one of the Lance girls is on the line_."

"Pretty sure Sara's death proves different," John huffed. "Undeserved, by the way."

"_A special case, I'm afraid. Maybe Oliver's grown up a little. Or maybe I should have made the choice a little more difficult, hm? Which Lance sister might've carried more punch. I should've known he'd pick Miss Smoak. After all, what represents salvation better than literal happiness?_" He chuckled crudely. "_But it did provide a little insight… If I want to hurt him, I know just who to go to._"

Felicity frowned, briefly distracted from the directions she was giving Oliver, but she was quick to tell him which way to turn, adding, "Hurry!" as if it might somehow propel him down the halls faster.

"He'll never let you get close enough. Not again," John returned, an edge to his voice. "If I know one thing, it's that Oliver will never let you hurt her."

"_Is that how deep your trust goes, Mister Diggle? You'll leave her life in his hands?_"

"If I die today, I do it knowing she'll be safe. That's all that matters."

"_There is no 'if' in death. Only 'when.'" _

John scoffed. "Said the guy who was resurrected from a miracle drug."

"Felicity, which way? Left or right?" Oliver interrupted.

"Left. Go left." She smacked a hand down on the table, leaning forward to stare at the dots on the screen. Despite seeing far too many, she knew which ones were theirs.

It all happened so quickly after that.

There was grunting and fighting and a mix of voices that she couldn't differentiate at first. She could hear Oliver's harsh breathing as he ran and ran and then, "_Nooo!_"

The snap-bang of a gun made her jump in her skin. She wrapped her arms around herself and waited. One heartbeat, two.

"John?" she whispered. She stared at the screen in front of her. "John Diggle, answer me."

Nothing but static.

"Oliver?" she choked out.

And then, suddenly, the screen cleared of the unnecessary heat signatures. There was one, leaving the scene quickly. And four others far away from where John and Oliver were, unmoving, unconscious.

She stared at the two most important ones, reaching out until her fingers touched the screen.

"John? Oliver?" she tried again, this time a little more frantic.

A beat passed, and then another, until finally Oliver replied, "I'm here."

She let out a heavy breath and swallowed tightly. "Where's John? Is he okay?"

When there was no reply, she shook her head sharply. "_Oliver!_ Where is John?"

A shaky breath answered her. "He's gone."

"Gone?"

"Slade shot him."

"We can get him help!" she cried, already grabbing her cell phone. "I'll call Lance. He can send somebody."

"Felicity."

"We'll have to be discreet. I—I know John keeps a change of clothes in the trunk for you, in case of emergencies. You'll have to change. Maybe you can say it was a mugging or something. That he got in the way, saved your life."

"Felicity."

"You'll have to move him. It'll look weird if he's in the middle of some random warehouse. Or maybe Lance will help cover it up. I—I don't know. I—"

"_Felicity_," he interrupted, this time louder, demanding. "John is dead. I… I'm sorry. He… He was shot point-blank in the head. He's not… We can't save him."

She crumbled.

Falling to her knees there in the foundry, she pressed her hands to her face. "No," she whispered. "No, no, no. He pro—promised me. He said he'd some back. Bring him back. Oliver, bring him back!" Folding forward, she buried her face in her arms and sobbed, her body shaking with the force of it. She shook her head, denial chewing its way into her bones.

"I'm bringing him home," Oliver answered.

Felicity didn't reply.

She laid on the foundry flood, curled up in a ball, crying until she was numb. And there she stayed, for a long while, with no noise but the sound of her breathing, tears silently spilling down her cheeks.

When Oliver brought Diggle back to the foundry, she pulled herself from the floor to meet him.

He laid Diggle down on the metal med table set up and took a step back as Felicity moved toward him. A sob worked its way up from her chest as she shook her head. She cradled her friend's face in her shaking hands and fell apart. "Wake up," she told him. Letting her head fall to his chest, she clutched him, her shoulders shaking as she wept. "John, please… _please_…"

Eventually, Oliver would pull her away from him. He wrapped her in the blanket she always kept folded on the cushions for when either John or Oliver couldn't take it anymore and needed to sleep. He placed her on the couch, tucked in the corner, where she numbly stared out at the foundry, unseeing.

Oliver changed out of his leathers and back into his CEO suit before kneeling in front of her, his hand finding hers.

"I have to take him away."

Her eyes finally met his, her brow furrowed. "No. He belongs here. With us."

"Felicity…" He ran his thumb over hers, his chin shaking, and he shook his head. Dragging a hand down his face, he let out a quavering breath and raised her hand up to his mouth. He kissed her knuckles and unfurled her fingers, pressing her palm up to his face. "I'm sorry," he rasped.

She hadn't realized she had any tears left until that moment. Oliver's head fell to her lap as he cried and she scrubbed her fingers through his hair, closing her eyes as her grief swamped her. He was her friend, _their_ friend, and the ache was raw, the emptiness was too real. Oliver fell apart in front of her, his hands wrapped around her forearms as she circled his head with her arms and held him close, bending forward until they were just a knot of misery and loss.

It could've been minutes or hours before they let go of each other. Time seemed insignificant at that point. But eventually, he gathered up the pieces of himself and shoved them back into some semblance of 'together.' He laid her down on the couch and stroked her hair back from her damp cheek before he left.

The following morning, the news would tell of how John Diggle risked his life to save Oliver Queen in a mugging in the Glades and was killed for his efforts.

When the funeral came a week later, they didn't bother with cover identities. Felicity Smoak held Oliver Queen's hand as they stood at the front, watching their friend, their partner, their _brother _laid to rest. As the casket was lowered into the ground, Oliver's fingers tied around hers and promised to never let go.

[**Next**: Part II.]

* * *

**author's note**: _So, I'm finished this story, but it ended up being like 20,000 words and I find I always have fewer readers/reviewers when I post the really super long oneshots. Which is why I chopped it up into three main arcs and here ya go. Because it's all finished, I'm excited to post the next part, which is a lot more Olicity-focused. I usually wait four to seven days to get up a new chapter, but I have been posting a lot less in the last week or so due to being at practicum and a heavy load at school, so I'm not opposed to posting earlier than usual if you guys are up for it? _

_Please leave a review. They're my lifeblood, and I worked my ass off on this story, so feedback would be really nice. I'm going to assume that Digg's was the most heartbreaking, but I'd love to hear if you feel different or the same and whatever! _:)

_Thank you so much for reading! _

- **Lee | Fina**


	2. Part Two

**title**: light a match, burn the world to ash (I will watch it die, and hold your hand as I fly)  
**category**: arrow  
**genre**: tragedy/romance  
**ship**: felicity/oliver  
**rating**: r  
**prompt**: olicity + revenge + happy ending optional - **anonymous** (Tumblr)  
**warning(s)**:major character death, coarse language, sexual content, explicit violence**  
word count**: 11,149  
**overall status**: complete  
**summary**: When Slade comes for Team Arrow, he is unforgiving in his relentless pursuit for revenge. In the end, however, he shouldn't have underestimated Felicity.

**_light a match, burn the world to ash (I will watch it die, and hold your hand as I fly)  
_**-2/3-

**re·venge** [ri-venj] v. _to exact punishment or expiation for a wrong on behalf of, especially in a resentful or vindictive spirit._

**II**.

Felicity never liked those movies where the couple saw each other for the first time, in some serendipitous way, and suddenly everything fell into place. Love at first sight was one cliché she did not want to sign up for. How could anybody really know who that person was from one look? Talk about judging a book by the cover. Besides, serial killers could be handsome; in fact it probably helped them in that whole stabby-stabby murder thing. And yeah, okay, the eyes were the window to the soul, but what if those windows were kind of smudged and the view wasn't as clear as it should be? Or what if the person looking didn't wear their glasses that day and so they thought they saw something that they didn't?

Anyway, the point was, love at first sight, not something her logical brain could ever adhere to.

And then, well…

Oliver Queen swept into her life like a hurricane. Oh, he seemed harmless at first, a little flirtatious to get his needs met, but that was mostly just the veneer. It was after, when charming grins became brooding frowns, and cheerfully asking for her help became demands for her to track down his latest target, that Hurricane Oliver was put into effect. Some days, mostly during that early time in their partnership, she wondered just what it was she really signed up for and how iron clad that contract really was, because hello, exit stage right, maybe before too many people got killed and she had a hand in those deaths. But then things changed. Oliver wasn't so much the arrow-happy vigilante as he was a man looking for justice and willing to hear reason. He wasn't sunshine and rainbows, but who could expect that from a man who spent five years on an island called purgatory? So, she accepted that there were some grey areas that didn't operate in the same scope as her morals and that he lived mostly in those shades.

She wouldn't call it love at first sight, not when she met his not so genuine self or his very hooded, about to bleed out in her car self. But she would say that she knew something was different about him from the moment she met him. Maybe it was a realistic version of that 'hallelujah' moment in movies where the guy sees the girl and just has that light-bulb go off where they just, well, _know_. She knew _something_, but she wasn't sure what. And sure, as time went on, she formed a little crush on him that occasionally made her feel ridiculous and question just how logical she was really being, but she could curb those feelings for the greater good. Saving the city, protecting the innocent, yadda yadda yadda. The point was that she always knew Oliver would play a significant role in her life, she just wasn't sure _how _significant.

And, then, well, that light bulb moment, it turned into an inferno.

* * *

The first time they fucked, it was in a haze of grief. They were desperate to feel something,_ anything_, to remember that they were alive.

They were in the foundry, much like they usually were. It seemed like all she ever did now was search and search for any sign of Slade Wilson, coming up with nothing every time. The nights grew later, until she was nearly falling asleep at her computers, and then Oliver would be there, holding her jacket up in that silent demand for her to shut down her computers and get some rest. He stayed at her apartment now; he never really left her alone. She couldn't remember the last time she'd looked around and hadn't found him within arm's reach.

The night things changed, he'd been struggling all day. He'd donned the hood to take out some criminal or another roaming the streets, but it wasn't satisfying. It'd been building for weeks, the tension and the loss. The hollowed out corners of the foundry seemed to loom over them, a constant reminder of their failure. He'd shed his leathers and was in the middle of an intense work out, spinning his escrima sticks between his fingers as he panted, skin dripping with sweat. Hesitantly, she'd approached him, chewing on her lip as she watched him struggle, wound tight as a coil, every muscle bunched up, ready to strike.

She reached for him, a hand on his shoulder, and for just a moment, he leaned into it. He let her stabilize him, let her remind him that she was there, she was okay, _they_ were okay. Except, well, they weren't. Not really. 'Okay' was not a word she would use to describe them anymore. Fractured. Lost. Constantly on alert. Those were better ways to describe them.

But then Oliver turned his head, his eyes dark, his jaw clenched, and she… reacted.

Stepping around him, she slid a hand over his chest, pressing her palm to his heart. In an effort to prove to herself that it was still beating, probably. What happened after was a long time coming.

When he kissed her, she felt it down into her bones. There was desperation and fear and the relentless pursuit to prove to himself that he had her. Just her, yes. But her all the same. One of his hands tangled in her hair, cradling it close as his mouth devoured hers, slanting and seeking, tongue and teeth tasting and marking.

They stumbled backwards, off the mats, tearing at each other's clothes, ripping away the last remaining barriers between them until there was nothing. Just sorrow and need in every finger that touched him, clutching at his shoulders and pulling him closer, holding onto him for dear life. And he kissed her, from her neck to her shoulders and down her chest, his lips leaving a path of fire that seared her skin so deep that she swore she'd never forget the exact placement of his mouth, like he was writing the stars of her own personal constellation into her skin.

He pinned her against the wall so hard the breath left her lungs in a whoosh, her legs hitched up on his sides, warm, sweaty, sinewy skin pressing against every inch of her body. His hands were everywhere, stroking and teasing, smoothing over every dip and valley, memorizing her body before he found her fingers and tangled them with his own. He pinned her hands to the wall as he sunk into her, his body pressed to hers so deeply that she swore she could feel his tattoos and scars become her own. His teeth scraped down her neck, his mouth sucking and marking her, until he was satisfied that she was there, she was real, she was his, they were together.

His hips rolled, pumping into her with a striking amount of control. She could feel every inch of him as he moved inside her, stretching her, warm and hard and so fucking good. She needed this. She needed the explosion of pleasure and fulfillment that was both there and just out of reach. She needed the way his fingers squeezed around hers and his mouth worked over her skin. She needed the way his body felt against hers, heavy and hard and unrelenting as it pinned her there, with the wall scraping at her back.

He didn't release her hands until she came for him, throwing her head back against the wall as she let out a hitched breath and closed her eyes, waves of ecstasy rolling through her. And then he was moving in her again, drawing it out, and she wrapped her arms around him, trying to find stability when everything felt sideways, her whole body still shaking. Her nails dragged down his back, drawing blood, and it only made him fuck her harder, deeper, his hand sliding between them to roll her clit between his fingers. It was almost too much, too fast, too soon. Almost but not quite. She muffled his name on his shoulder, biting down hard to keep from screaming as her orgasm hit her so hard that she swore she went blind for a split second.

There was passion and lust and desperation rolled up so tightly that she couldn't tell which from which. There was love too, but that came after. That came when her name spilled from his lips on a cry, a question, like he didn't think it was really happening. Like he thought he was dreaming. Maybe it was a nightmare. He'd lost so many that she wondered if he'd pre-emptively added her name to the list.

But then they were lying on the couch together, a tangle of legs and bodies, and he was stroking her hair back from her face, watching her, in that way he did whenever she got hurt and he needed to see her eyes to make sure she was really okay. His fingers slid up and down her back while he kissed her cheeks and her chin and her eyelashes. He said her name then, not as a question but as an answer. He held her tightly when he fell asleep, his fingers wound around her hair. She watched him, looking impossibly young and innocent and almost, _almost _peaceful. She fell asleep wishing he could be like that when he was awake, all the while knowing he never would.

When she woke up later, it was to him spreading her legs and licking her open, sucking on her clit until she cried his name, fingers gripping his hair, and came on a tidal wave of broken pieces trying to mend with faulty glue. It was slow and tender after that, with him wrapping her legs around his waist, stroking her thighs and her stomach and sucking kisses over her breasts before he sunk into her. He held her gaze as he moved inside her, his thumbs tracing every plane of her face, rubbing over the arches of her cheeks as he kissed her mouth and sucked on her lips and said her name, over and over.

It was a pattern of his that he repeated every night and every morning.

* * *

Slade disappeared with no sign to where. Oliver donned the CEO mask and continued to struggle in his double life, but the weight was beginning to show and the burden was just short of too much to bear.

The foundry felt wrong. It felt empty. That space that John used to occupy was too clear. Oliver trained and trained, but his sparring partner was gone. Sometimes she would catch him with Digg's name at the end of his tongue, about to ask him to join him on the mats or to tell him to get ready, they had somebody they needed to fight. But he would stop and fold his mouth and try to tamp down on the grief that snuck up on him.

Those nights, he was especially harsh. He needed to fight, to take out his anger on someone, so she'd find a target and send him out to release that pent up rage. It was never enough, though. He cleaned up the streets, leaving them for Lance and the others to pick up and put away. And then he would return to the foundry, frayed around the edges, and she'd reach for him, like she always did. Sometimes he left the leathers on, too eager, too desperate to bother with taking them off, and she would grip the shoulders of his suit in her hands as he pressed her against the wall, or she'd feel the leather stick to her sweaty skin as he fucked her over her desk. It was intense, enough that sometimes she had bruises on her hips from the pressure of his hands, but she never regretted it, she never turned him away.

She didn't show her grief the same way he did. She cried and she fell apart and she went out to the cemetery to talk to John's grave some days, but she didn't let it burn away inside her like Oliver did.

Before long, her apartment was his too. There was rarely a night when she rolled over and didn't find him there beside her. If the nightmares were too much, he went out to her fire escape to get fresh air and calm down, but, more often than not, she would wake up to the overwhelming heat of him surrounding her. He cocooned her in his sleep; as if afraid that as soon as he closed his eyes, Slade would come for her and rip her out of his arms. The slightest sound woke him; she couldn't count how many times she'd been startled awake to find him gripping her to his chest, one weapon or another in hand, held out to subdue some invisible attacker.

She would have to soothe him, convince him there were nothing there in the shadows, nobody coming to kill her (yet), but he'd never be able to fall asleep after that. He would cradle her against his chest, her head on his shoulder, while he stroked her hair and kept watch. Some nights he would pull the armchair from the corner of the room and place it the exact distance between the door and the window, ready for Slade to suddenly appear from either side. He would stay awake all night, haunted and paranoid and she would try to coax him to bed, but it rarely worked. He was too wound up, too sure that something was coming, and she couldn't convince him different.

They didn't spend much time apart by that point. They rarely had before, due to their double jobs, but with Oliver so sure that Slade would come for her, he didn't want her going far.

She understood at first, but then weeks and months passed and she needed a breather. She needed to stand on her own two feet without him there to steady her. Some nights, she went upstairs and had a drink at the bar or talked with Thea. But she could feel him watching, standing guard on the balcony above, making sure she was safe. She was desperately waiting for the day that Slade Wilson would cease to exist just so she could have her freedom back. Not from Oliver, but from the oppressive nature of his protection.

She loved him. She did. She'd loved him long before Slade Wilson entered their lives and she would love him long after. But she couldn't live like this. The panic that consumed her on a daily basis was not working for her and she needed it to stop.

"It will. When I find him. When I finish this…" Oliver stood by the training dummies, his hands on his hips, sweat dripping down his chest. "I know it's hard for you. I know you want this to be over. I do, too." He walked toward her, his brow furrowed and his mouth set in a line. He bent to kiss her temple before he knelt in front of her. "I never wanted this for you. For any of us. I had no idea this would happen or that he would…" He shook his head. "If I knew what would've happened when Ivo had Sara and Shado…"

"_Don't_. Don't say you would've saved Shado instead." She cupped his face in her hands and stroked his cheeks with her thumbs. "Oliver, you didn't make a choice that day. You were in an impossible situation and you just—you _reacted_. It's okay… I get it. And I need you to know that I don't blame you for this. I don't… I don't blame you for Roy or Sara or… or Digg."

He closed his eyes, his head falling forward, but she caught his chin and lifted it.

"Slade did this. Slade _chose _to do this." She wrapped her arms around his neck and bent forward until her forehead fell atop his head. "You're a good man, Oliver. Right now, in front of me, all I see a good man."

He kissed her shoulder, burying his face in her neck, and when he finally drew back, he tucked her hair behind her ears and cradled her face. "I'm going to find him, and I'm going to kill him. And then we'll be free."

She kissed him, not because of his promise, but because she knew they'd never truly be free. Not really. But they would have each other. And she could live with that.

* * *

"I miss you."

She stared at his name, chipped into the marble with precision.

_John Diggle_

"I know we both came into this with this grand idea of what we wanted to do. Well, maybe mine was different. I mean, originally I just wanted to save Walter and then, you know, stayed, but… I know you came into this with a different idea. I think you signed up because you were always a soldier and this was how you lived up to that. You needed a fight and you found one. I tell myself it's okay, that you were always prepared for this to happen… I tell myself that you'd tell me not to be upset, not to miss you so much. Or maybe you'd tell me that it was worth it or you didn't regret what you did that night. Mostly you'd probably just stare at me with that knowing look on your face as I babbled on and on about what you _would _say and then you'd have some really deep words of wisdom that would make perfect sense and make me feel so much better. But, well, you can't… You can never say those things, because you're… You're gone and…" Felicity swiped at her cheeks as tears spilled down them. She let out a choked laugh and smiled at his grave. "Have I mentioned I miss you?"

He didn't answer, of course.

He never did.

That didn't stop her from talking to him.

And when she was done, when she somehow, miraculously, ran out of things to say, then she'd stand from her seat in the grass, dust herself off, and walk back to Oliver. He gave her enough space to keep her privacy, to say what she needed to without him overhearing, but he stayed close enough that if something ever happened, he would be there. There were times she didn't like that, but leaving John's grave wasn't one of them. Oliver held her up as her head fell to his shoulder and his arm slid around her waist, walking her back to the car, the noticeable lack of their third part making it that much worse. Sometimes she closed her eyes and pretended he was walking on Oliver's other side.

It was a short reprieve.

* * *

"I want you to train me," she told him, watching as he attacked a dummy so hard that his escrima sticks splintered, spraying wood across the mats.

He turned to her, his jaw set, and gave his head a hard shake.

"Oliver," she sighed, stepping toward him. "I know you want to think that being together, as long as you've got me right beside you, he can't get me. But that… It won't always work. We can't _always _be together."

He opened his mouth to argue, but she raised a hand to cut him off.

"You had dinner with Thea last night and I had to stay here for three hours. Did I get work done? Yes, definitely. But as much as we like to think of this place as a fortress, it's not one. I know it makes you feel better, even if you do text me every fifteen minutes like clockwork. But we can't _live _like this."

Oliver stepped away from her, grabbing up a bottle of water to spray down his face and chest before he dabbed at his bare skin with a towel. It took him a long time to say anything, but he didn't leave, and that was the first step. Usually when she brought this up, he argued. They fought, every couple has, but Oliver's biggest fear had always been that she would get hurt for being close to him. Now that they were a couple, and with Slade Wilson well aware of how much they meant to each other, that fear had tripled. Oliver was a stubborn man, equally as stubborn as Felicity herself, so it was logical that they would butt heads. But this was an issue she couldn't let slide anymore. They'd lost too many and the risk had reached a suffocating level.

"I know it doesn't make sense, but if I don't train you then maybe I can convince myself that all you need is me. As long as I'm right here with you, I know nothing will ever hurt you."

She walked toward him, her hands settling on his waist and she pressed her cheek to his shoulder blade. His skin was warm, she could almost see steam coming off of him. He'd always run hotter than her; she sometimes wondered if his body had become so acclimated to the island that it actively tried to keep warmer against a climate he was no longer suffering through. She slid her hands around to rest on his stomach and turned her head to kiss his back.

"I know you'll always do your best to keep me safe. I've never doubted that. But things happen, sometimes we get separated, and I'm tired of being the damsel. I don't want to be the reason you get hurt, because you're too focused on whether I'm okay or I'm handling myself." She squeezed her arms around him. "If you train me, that's one less fear on your plate."

He covered her hands and squeezed. "I'll always worry about you," he told her, his voice low and thick. "Nothing and no one comes before you."

She moved around to face him, tipping her head back and smiling as she searched his eyes. "You know it's the same for me, don't you…? Which means one day something might happen where we have to choose and if you think I'll let you sacrifice yourself for me, Oliver Queen, you've got another thing coming." She poked his chest, her eyebrow raised.

Catching her hand, he raised it, kissing the pad of her finger and then her palm and her wrist and up her arm.

Her eyes fell to half-mast as she bit her lip. "Distracting me won't work."

He grinned, nipping at the inside of her elbow. "Won't it?"

Fine, so it did, but she still convinced him to train her. Just, well, after her legs stopped feeling like jelly.

* * *

Training hurt.

Physically, emotionally, mentally, it was taxing.

There were days she woke up and wasn't sure she could move, her muscles ached so bad. But then Oliver noticed and he massaged the cramps in her legs, he rubbed down her back until everything loosened up, he ran her bubble baths and carried her to the tub. There were nights when she wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of the evening soaking in Epson salts and he would find her there, her head pillowed on a folded towel and her favorite vanilla candles lit up around the bathroom. He would kneel beside the tub and kiss her pruny fingers and tell her how she was getting faster and hitting harder and she could hear the pride in his voice, even as his eyes were sad.

"I'll never be like Sara," she told him one night, watching shadows from the candles darken the hollows of his face. "I'll never be that powerful or that deadly, but I think, if I keep this up, I can survive."

He stared at her then, his eyes touched with too much tragedy, and he told her, "You'll always survive. When everything else falls apart, you're going to be the only one left standing."

She scoffed. "So, I'm the cockroach at the end of the nuclear war. Talk about lonely."

And he smiled faintly before standing from the floor. She watched as he undressed, losing his shirt and his pants and peeling his boxer-briefs down his legs. She shifted forward in the tub for him to crawl in behind her and tipped her head back as he pulled her against his chest. He tucked a few loose curls behind her ear and dipped down to kiss her wet shoulder.

Oliver didn't say much after that, not with words anyway. His fingers did a lot of the talking, stroking her arms and her neck and every inch of her skin he could reach. Some days she thought he was memorizing her; she was never sure if it was in preparation for having to live with a ghost he could never hold again or if it was something to hold onto as he finally died himself. She preferred to think neither. There was a reverence to everything he did with her, and sometimes she wondered if he thought he was still on that island. If, to him, she was a figment of his imagination, a mirage in a desert. She didn't want to be his salvation; she just wanted to be his.

* * *

They didn't talk about Sara. About what it meant that fateful day. Not for a long time anyway.

But the words had been building up for what seemed like ages, and they spilled out one night when her room seemed darker than ever, shrouding her and her uncertain expression but making the tremor of her voice all the more noticeable.

"When Slade made you choose between us… You never told me what happened. I mean, I've played it out in my head a million times. Did Slade pick? Did you pick? Did John shoot him and he retaliated by killing Sara? I… I don't know. I couldn't hear anything after he started choking me and I just… I don't get it." She laid on her stomach beside him, her pillow clutched beneath her cheek, staring at the blurry outline of him that the dark room barely allowed.

His fingers were running up and down the length of her back, so light that sometimes she thought it was just the swish of air, his hand close but not quite touching her.

He didn't answer for a long time, but she waited, because she knew if it was something he didn't want to talk about, he would've pulled away or told her to leave it alone. Not that she would listen, not as a general rule anyway, but that was his tactic when he wanted space from a topic.

Instead, he spent some time getting his thoughts together, until, finally, he said, "She told me to let her go."

Felicity went still, her brows hiked.

"Sara was… She was strong; she'd survived a lot. She was brave and good and she… She knew Slade, maybe on a level I didn't even understand. I know rage. I know hatred. But I think Sara lived in it longer than I did. We were at a standstill and I… I didn't know what to do. If I took a shot, he could've killed both of you; I couldn't risk that. So, she made that choice. She made it because she knew that I could never live with myself if I did."

Felicity swallowed thickly. "Oliver…"

He shook his head. "I would've picked you. Even when I didn't say it, your name was right there, at the tip of my tongue. I would've picked you, and I have to live with that. But in the end, it was really Sara that made the choice, and she chose for you to live."

Tears bit at her eyes so viciously that she had to close them, her lips trembling.

Oliver pressed against her side, his chin on her shoulder, his arms wrapped around her. "I'm sorry." He brushed her hair back and rubbed his face into her neck. "I'm sorry."

She wasn't sure what he was apologizing for, or if it was even to her. Was he sorry that he was willing to let Sara die so she could live? Sorry that there even was a choice? Sorry that his friend, his lover, had died because of mistakes he'd made on that island? Sorry that he couldn't fix any of this? Couldn't bring them back. Couldn't relieve her of her guilt as his own ate away at him every day. Maybe he was sorry for all of it.

Felicity turned herself to face him, holding him tight as he pressed his face to her chest, the warm wet tears on his cheeks falling silently, abrading her skin with his apologies and his shame. Running her fingers through her hair, she kissed the top of his head, and wished he would believe her when she told him it wasn't his fault. That she didn't blame him. That maybe, even if it made her an awful, terrible person, she was a tiny bit grateful that both he and Sara wanted her to live. Even if she wasn't sure they made the right choice.

* * *

She liked Thea. Despite the fact that she was so out of the loop that it was ridiculous, Felicity still felt like Thea somehow got her. Maybe it was that mutual acknowledgement that hey, death of a loved one really sucked, and sometimes alcohol and talking helped. She found Thea crying over a bottle of patron on a Thursday night and sat down beside her on the floor, took a drag from the half-empty bottle and said, "You wanna talk or you wanna just cry together?"

That first night, all they did was cry. Thea for Roy and her dad and maybe even her brother, even though he'd come back. Felicity for Roy and Sara and John and, yeah, even Oliver, because he was back but not completely. The island had taken something from him, and every death that followed took a little more. Sometimes she wondered if there'd be nothing left, but then he'd turn to her and he'd say her name and she'd know there was more there than it seemed, it was just carefully wrapped around very specific people. Her, Thea, his mother, despite protests to the contrary. They were all he had left in the world and he would do anything to keep them safe.

That scared her.

So she drank a little more and she grieved a little deeper and she promised herself that, whatever happened, she'd make sure Thea got through it. Somehow.

The second time she found her sitting on the floor, this time with a bottle of Jack, Thea shared a story about her dad (Robert, not Malcolm), and Felicity thought _maybe_. Maybe she could be friends with Thea. Maybe she wouldn't lose this one. Maybe this could be okay.

Maybe.

* * *

Whenever she visited Sara, she brought vodka. She poured them each a shot and then drank Sara's too.

She never really knew what to say, but that had never stopped her from talking before.

Sometimes she talked about boring things, about work at QC or a particular piece of code that had been bothering her, or how her mother had emailed her, exactly six months since the last time she did. Other times she talked about serious things, like how she couldn't find Slade and it was driving her crazy. Her whole job was wielding the internet like it was her own personal scepter, so how could she not work her magic on this? And sometimes, when she was feeling particularly terrible and missing her friend more than ever, she'd pour Sara's shot in the grass and tell her, "You're an idiot. It should've been you who lived."

Sara deserved it more, didn't she? After everything she'd been through.

When she walked back to Oliver after, she wondered if maybe he had better hearing than she thought, because he always seemed to know when she was having one of 'those' days, full of guilt and the certainty that Sara's death was for nothing. He always held her a little tighter, pressing a kiss to her hair and cradling her to his side like he feared she might slip through his fingers, seep out of his arm like air and float up and out of reach. Her fingers twisted around his shirt like maybe she thought she might, too.

* * *

The funny thing about grief was that it was always there. She wasn't sure that she would ever get over the loss of her team, not really. They would always cling to her, like a phantom limb, one that ached and stung and reminded her that it was still there, even if she couldn't see it. But there were days when it was manageable. When sometimes she forgot to miss them and she could be happy. As time passed, she smiled more and she laughed and she could cuddle up with Oliver on the couch with a cold bottle of wine and a movie and not feel like somehow she was betraying them.

Some days, she thought maybe life didn't have to stop. It didn't have to become one endless cycle of rage and loss.

As long as Slade stayed off her radar, she could almost believe that life was still moving forward instead of staying in that perpetual state of _anticipation_.

She knew Oliver felt it, too. She caught him smiling and chuckling, the shadows chased away for a while. He was happy with her, she knew that. As happy as someone could be when they were waiting for what little joy they had to be taken away.

Maybe this was as close as they would ever get to normal and safe and content. Maybe that was Slade's final blow. They would spend their whole lives looking over their shoulders for him, waiting for him to attack, and he just never would. They'd be stuck in a state of constant paranoia, always worried, always on the look out, hesitant to truly accept that maybe it was over. She wasn't sure she could live like that forever.

Later, she would think that outcome would have been a blessing.

* * *

Oliver told her he loved her on a Wednesday morning.

She was getting ready for work, a towel wrapped around her head in a truly unflattering way, and he was sitting in the armchair by the window, his shirt undone and his tie hanging from his neck. He was barefoot, preferring not to put on shoes or socks until absolutely necessary. Occasionally, she called him Tarzan; if he could get away with never wearing clothes, he would. In fact, he spent an innumerable amount of weekends walking around her apartment completely naked and not the least bit abashed. Not that she was complaining.

"We have that meeting at 11," she reminded him, going through her closet for the dress she'd decided on last night but hadn't had a chance to pull out from the overstuffed recesses of her closet. "Don't let me forget, I need to stop and pick up bagels. And not from that one store, because _ew_, those bagels were terrible. Maybe we'll try that other one. You know the one, by the pet store on fifth? Thea said they made good bagels." She finally found her dress and pulled it out with a triumphant, "Ah-hah!" She smiled as she laid it out on the foot of the bed. "Speaking of Thea, she says she's been making progress at those grief and loss meetings she's been going to. I mean, I don't expect her to get over it any time soon. I know she's still trying to figure out who the Arrow is. But she's taking a big step in trying to accept Roy's death. And your dad's too, I think. It's been hard. I don't think she ever really accepted what happened. Or, at least, I don't think she talked about it with anyone. Not in-depth anyway. And it sounds like it's working, so it could be really good for her." She shrugged. "I might join her next week, I think. I… It could be good, to talk about Digg and Sara." She nodded, chewing on her lip. "I don't know. It's just an idea."

Turning on her heel, she walked over to her dresser and pulled open the top drawer, grabbing out a pair of underwear and a cute bra. "Which reminds me, I need to talk to my landlord about extra parking. Having your car parked out front every night seems like a bad idea. It doesn't cost a lot to get another parking spot in the back lot, it's just a matter of whether or not there's any space. I know you said I should just let my lease on my car run out, but seriously, a girl needs a get-away car for emergencies, you know? Like late-night ice cream runs, which fancy town cars are way too weird for. Actually, while on the topic of cars, we should get you something else, since you refuse to hire a driver, which makes your town car kind of, well, pointless. I mean, we could keep with the public persona and get something flashy, but if you think I'm going to drive a Porsche to get mint-chip, you're nuts. And don't start with the bike-talk either. We leave your bike at the club for a reason. You need to stop casually driving that thing around or people will start putting two and two together and come up with—"

"I love you."

"—four." She paused, looking up at him, her brows hiked. "I mean… _what?_"

He smiled at her, his head tipped to the side as his eyes washed over her face. "I'm in love with you."

Felicity swallowed tightly, her knees wobbling beneath her, and then blew out a breath. "Oh."

His smile grew into a grin. "Oh?"

Shaking her head, she closed her eyes for a moment. "Sorry, I—I didn't mean 'oh' as in 'oh, that's nice, thanks for sharing' or like 'oh, really? That's awkward.' I just mean, like, '_oh_.' Which, I know sounds like the same thing, except it doesn't in my head, because 'oh, you're in love with me, and I've imagined you saying this a few thousand times but not when I had a towel on my head and was rambling about ice cream.' Well, actually, no, even in my fantasies I ramble, which is probably a bad sign of _something_, but, whatever." She waved her hands. "The point I was trying to make was that I wasn't expecting it to sound so…_ real_, but it did and you do and… and I love you, too."

He held a hand out to her and she crossed the space between them to take it, feeling his fingers fold between hers. He tugged her until she slid into his lap and then he reached up and released her hair from her towel, tossing it in the general direction of the hamper. He combed his fingers through her hair before he cupped her face and brought her in close, until her lips were almost on his. "_Felicity_…"

"Mm…" she hummed, her gaze darting down to his lips before reaching back up to meet his.

Quietly, like a whisper reaching through a room full of sound, he said, "I love you."

And then he kissed her, and he said it with his lips cradling hers and his fingers dancing down the slope of her neck. He tugged the towel loose from its knot over her chest and let his mouth print his declaration into her skin. He turned her so her head fell to his shoulder and her legs spread open to either side of his. His fingers wrote it on her clit and across her pussy before sinking inside her and making her shout his name while he sucked on the pulse at her neck.

And as she came down with him whispering in her ear how beautiful she was, how he loved the way she said his name when she came, how he wanted to see her do that for the rest of their lives, she listened to her heart hammering away like an echo of his words.

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

* * *

Sometimes she could convince herself that her life was normal. That the empty spaces people used to occupy weren't glaringly void. But then she would turn to see if Sara wanted to get a drink and talk and unwind from the day, only to find that place on the corner of her desk where she used to sit empty. Some days she would pick up an extra burger at Big Belly for John and remember that he couldn't eat it. And some nights, she would go to that meeting with Thea, hold her hand as she broke down, and wish there was a mouthy teenager still around to smirk and tug on Thea's hair and make her smile like she used to.

The foundry echoed with voices that still lingered but were never loud enough. Oliver tried to make up for it by making more noise on the salmon ladder, by beating up invisible opponents on the mats, but in the end there was only the two of them. Always searching for a new target and waiting for that terrible moment when Slade resurfaced and they were faced with two becoming one or none. Because Felicity wasn't naïve, she knew that death was coming. No matter how tightly Oliver held her or how deeply he kissed her, no matter how often he told her he loved her or how much he truly meant it, one day soon there would be another voice to echo in the foundry, and it would be one of theirs.

To stamp out those fears, she trained a little harder, sunk into his embrace deeper, and smiled a bit brighter. But even her light had to dim eventually.

* * *

_He was going to hurt you. There was no choice to make._

Those words, that once held such comfort, would haunt her for the rest of her days.

Felicity remembered starkly the moment that she told Oliver not to underestimate Slade Wilson.

What she should have remembered was never to underestimate Oliver Queen.

Two years. That was how long it took for Slade Wilson to circle back to them. She wondered if he'd spent all of his time planning or if he simply got tired of fighting other battles and returned to the one with Oliver for something to do. He did like the drama of it, didn't he?

The foundry was in shambles. He'd brought it down on her head while Oliver had been visiting Thea and Moira for a family dinner still rife with too much tension and deceit. He'd asked her to come but she'd firmly told him no. It wasn't that his family wasn't aware they were a couple, because they were, but she knew that her presence only ever made things worse with Moira. As much as the woman seemed to appreciate her loyalty and even her chutzpa in doing the right thing, Felicity was still the reason that Moira's relationship with Oliver was barely holding on. Felicity often wanted to argue that it was Moira's behaviour with Malcolm Merlyn and the lies she told for years that were the _actual _reason for that betrayal causing a rift, but semantics weren't going to go over well, so she left it alone.

However, when the foundry began to shake, she realized her mistake. Slade was waiting for a chance and this was it.

What he didn't know was that she'd put a panic room into the foundry for an event like this. Malcolm's earthquake machines had taught her that, as much as the foundry seemed like it was unshakeable, it wasn't. She managed to get into the panic room, but just barely, and she was pretty sure one of the hanging lights was what clipped her shoulder as she ran. A scrape down her arm currently gushing a ridiculous amount of blood warned her that she wouldn't be walking away from this unscathed.

The shaking seemed to go on forever; the noise deafening. She wasn't sure what to expect when she finally opened the door. Rubble and support beams? How would she get out if the stairs were destroyed? Had he taken the whole of Verdant apart? It was a Sunday, so the likelihood of anyone being upstairs was slim. But that also depended on _how _he'd destroyed Verdant. Was the surrounding area destroyed, too? Was this a mini-Undertaking or condensed to just the club?

When she finally got the door open, she was hesitant to step outside of it. She could smell smoke long before she saw it, but when she did, it was all there was. Black, rolling clouds of smoke that blanketed everything. A shiver of fear ran down her spine, a flashback to the Undertaking and how the roof had fallen around her, fire breaking out and her equipment sparking all over, ran through her mind. Refusing to let it freeze her in place, she pushed the door further open and turned her head up to see what the damage was. Some of the roof had caved in, but the support beams were still holding up a lot of it. It looked like the stairs were still intact, but she wouldn't know until she got to them.

She started climbing over chunks of cement and lamented how decimated her foundry she was. Her computers were buried, the chair she'd been sitting on chillingly destroyed under a chunk of the roof twice her size. Her arm stung; she held it close to her chest as she tried to escape, tripping and scrambling to get closer to the stairs. She paused when she reached the glass case with Oliver's suit inside. What if the cops came? What if they found all of this? They had to be on their way. Glades or not, they would have to answer when the fire and smoke filled the sky. _Right?_ She reached inside the case and pulled his suit out, balling it up under her arm before she moved to where he kept a gym bag. She didn't have time to get his bows and arrows; there were too many of them and the smoke was getting so thick that she was coughing with every breath. She just hoped Oliver got here before the police did. Or maybe she could convince Lance to cordon the area off so she could sneak a few important things out…

She was working the problem over in her head as she climbed up the rickety stairs. They wobbled beneath her and she felt fear clamp down hard on her heart. Hurrying up the steps, she plugged in the numbers to the keypad, hoping it hadn't been damaged, and let out a breath of relief as they door clicked open. She closed it behind her and started across the dance floor of Verdant, biting her lip as she found the ground uneven, cement floor pushing up in some places while whole chunks of it had fallen through to the foundry below. It looked much worse from up here. The whole club seemed slanted to one side and she feared any wrong move might topple it.

The holes in front of her made the floor look like a supersized hopscotch course, smoke curling up and shadows from the fire below playing eerily all around. There was a back door she would have usually gone out, but she could already see that one of the upper floors had caved in, blocking it from use. So that meant she had to go through the front, and hope the floor was still steady enough not to cave in as soon as she touched it. With the duffelbag over her shoulder and her arm pressed tight to her chest, she bent to pick up a chunk of the ceiling to throw in front of her. When it skittered over the floor without making it fall apart, she took a deep breath and started walking forward. Maybe it would be better to run, she thought. Verdant never seemed so large as in that moment.

She barely made it twenty feet before a familiar laugh echoed through the hollowed out husk of a club.

And then he was there, standing in the center, a ghoulish yellow and black mask in place. He tore it off to see her better, grinning at her savagely. "It's been too long," he shouted to her, spreading his arms out wide.

She swallowed back her fear and blurted, "You know, if I had a choice, I think I'd firmly check the 'wish I'd never met him at all' box on the questionnaire."

He cocked his head as he walked forward. "You present an issue for me, Miss Smoak… I'd once thought to let you live. An homage, some might say… You see, in this rehash, you're an equivalent. Oliver's Shado, you might say. Of course, he had her and destroyed her, so maybe that is where the similarity begins to break down."

"If there's anyone to be blamed for Shado's death, it was Ivo. You, carrying this on, destroying innocent lives, that doesn't sound like an homage. That sounds like murder for the sake of feeding your rage." She stepped forward, glaring at him now. "You killed my friends, my _family_," she screamed through gritted teeth. "People who had _nothing _to do with Shado's death."

"But _he _did! He killed her! So he doesn't get to move on. He doesn't get to pull himself back together and forget about her. His protégé is dead, his brother is dead, the woman he chose to save instead of Shado is _dead_. And now all that's left to take from him is _you_. You and maybe that pretty little sister of his, hm?" He raised an eyebrow over his one good eye. "But you're the one that's going to destroy him. Just like Shado's death took everything from me, killing you will finally bring Oliver to my level." He reached back then and took a sword from his back, wielding it with such grace that she swore she could already feel the razor sharp edge biting at her skin. Seeing her flinch, he offered a half-grin. "Don't worry, dear one. I'll make it quick."

"If you think I'm going to kneel at your feet and let it happen, you're wrong." She took the duffelbag from her shoulder and laid it at her feet. "I'm _done _being a victim in your game, do you _hear _me?" She shifted back and forth on her feet, adrenaline pumping through her veins. "If I'm Shado in this little remake, then what do you think she'd do, huh?"

He bared his teeth like fangs. "She'd fight to the bitter end." His eye narrowed on her. "Unlike you, she'd probably win."

Felicity knew her chances of survival were slim, but that didn't mean she wasn't going to try to get out of there alive. Engaging him head on was almost certain death, so that meant she needed to find a way around him, to get her outside and into the street, where there were witnesses and, possibly, hopefully, a full fleet of police on their way toward the club right now.

"Will you run?" he asked her. "I didn't take you for a coward."

"Is it cowardice when you're facing a man with super strength and a sword?" she asked, her eyes still darting around the floor.

"Would you like me to even the field, Miss Smoak?" He pulled a second sword from his back and tossed it in her direction. It skidded across the floor toward her. "Go on. Pick it up."

"Right, because now that I have a weapon I haven't been trained in, we're so much more even," she scoffed.

His mouth ticked up on one side. "I wouldn't be a very good soldier if I gave you too much of an advantage."

"I don't think you're a good 'anything' at this point. Except maybe villain, but I wouldn't suggest putting it on your resume. Not that you really need to look for a job, since you're apparently a pretty affluent businessman at this point. If we weren't in a grudge match right now, I might ask how the hell that happened, but, well, we are, so…" She reached down to grab up the sword, the unfamiliar weight of it in her hands threw her center of balance off a bit. "Great. Now I'm wielding something wildly sharp with no formal training against a fearless madman. This is like Oliver's worst nightmare. And probably mine, too. Add in some kangaroos and needles and you'd have to sign me up for a straitjacket."

"Are you going to talk me to death?"

Letting out a nervous laugh, she wondered, "Is that an option?"

He spun his sword in his hand and stepped toward her.

"Right, we're doing this, now, because why not? I mean, unless you'd be up for rescheduling? Maybe when my arm isn't flayed open? If you hadn't totalled my computers I'd be able to look up my schedule, see when I have a free day for a showdown at dawn." While she continued to babble at him, she found herself backing up, away from the man making large strides in her direction, eager for a fight that she was sure would end in her death. She turned her head, looking for an escape. There was a small ledge of cement against the wall, but otherwise she was faced with a huge hole in the floor. She darted toward it, turning her eyes up to avoid looking at how high up she was, and crossed the ledge with quick, frantic steps. Slade, however, just changed direction and continued to advance on her.

It was a constant race of her fighting her way across the floor, desperately trying to get closer to the front door, hindered by the giant holes and slanted ground. The sword was heavy in her one good arm, and frustrated tears pricked at her eyes. This was not supposed to be how she died. But then, Roy wasn't supposed to die by beheading and Sara shouldn't have died as a sacrifice to manpain, and Digg—Digg should never have died. Period. _Ever_. And yet here she was, about to die in a night club, which just seemed ironic when she thought about how little she'd ever been in one outside of her work in the foundry. Seriously, before the few hangouts with Thea, when the club was everything _but _bumping, Sara managed to get her upstairs to hang out every once in a while, but she was more of a coffee shop and karaoke bar kind of girl. A waste, maybe, but now that she was facing her mortality in one, maybe not so much.

"You've run out of options," Slade exclaimed then, drawing her eye. He wasn't far now, and he was blocking her only way to the door. Well, unless she was going to grow wings to get across the huge holes on either side of him that blocked any chance of getting out. "Let it end here."

"See, I would, if that end meant _your _end, but I really don't think that's what you're implying, so…"

His mouth twitched. "Do you know what I regret?"

"I imagine there's a lot. Would you like to sit down and talk about it? Maybe over a few drinks, without the swords or bloodshed?"

"I regret that he won't be here to see it happen… I'd hoped he'd watch you die. But maybe this is fitting. He'll find you, just like I found her. He'll know. As soon as it happens, he'll know that you're gone. And he'll never forgive himself for not being there when it happened."

Felicity shook her head, the heat of the fire below was making her sweat, making her hair frizz and curl and stick to her skin. "I get that you loved her, okay? I understand that she meant everything to you and that it looked like Oliver betrayed you and her. But how is what you're doing any better?" Swallowing tightly, she lowered her sword, leaning on it a little. "If you kill me to hurt him, how are you any better than him?"

He stared at her a long moment. "I'm not," he answered. "The truth is, I'm not sure I was ever a good man. But I do know what I'm good at." He walked toward her slowly. "I want you to know this isn't about you. It was never truly about _you_. You loved the wrong man, you were loyal to him, you trusted him. So did she. But there are sacrifices that must be made, debts that must be paid, and you, _girl_, you're one of them."

When he was close enough, she lashed out. She swung her sword out and the tip caught his face, slicing across his cheek and drawing blood. He grinned, wiping at it, smearing it across his skin. "Atta girl," he encouraged, raising his sword. "_Fight me_."

So, she did. Or, she tried. She swung and jabbed and slashed her sword at him, but she wasn't trained for this. Oliver taught her hand to hand and how to get out of a choke hold and how to deflect a blow. He taught her what to do when someone shoved a gun in her face and how to knock someone unconscious. He taught her defense more than offense. If she had an escrima stick, her blows would be cleaner, but this sword felt nothing like an extension of her arm. It felt clunky and too large for her, it felt unnatural with how she moved and who she was. This was Death. It was not wounding an opponent or warning them to leave her alone, it was destroying them.

Felicity had never likened herself to a destroyer.

He stabbed his sword clean through her shoulder and she gasped at the pain that flowed through her. He yanked it back and smiled gleefully as blood poured from the wound, seeping down her front and soaking her shirt, plastering it to her. The arm he'd attacked was the only good one she had and the sword she held fell from her useless fingers, clanging on the floor. Her arms crossed over her chest as she stumbled back a step.

He followed after her a little more leisurely, his sword dripping with her blood.

She tripped over a chunk of cement and fell backwards, landing on her butt and crying out as her arms were jarred.

Felicity closed her eyes then, taking in a deep breath despite the smoke that was quickly filling the main level. The last thing she saw would not be Slade Wilson. She thought of Roy's snicker and Sara's smile and John's hug and Oliver… Just Oliver. She thought of how he'd pulled her back into bed that morning, laughing as he peppered her face with kisses and tried to convince her to sleep in with him. She thought of how he'd dragged his feet before going to his mother's, asking her again to please come with him, wasting time putting arrows away in an effort to stick around longer. She thought of the kiss he'd pressed to her temple before he left her in the foundry at her computers, promising he'd be back in a few short hours.

She sent up a silent apology for having to leave him, for adding her name to the list of casualties he blamed himself for, and hoped he understood that she'd tried, she'd fought, but she'd failed.

The final blow did not come, however.

Not to her.

The sickening sound of a blade cutting through flesh and blood reached her, but when she opened her eyes it was to see Slade's sword stuck through Oliver's stomach. She should have known he would come. He always came. He stood between her and Slade and took the sword meant for her. He'd swung down from the rafters like he had when she found herself standing on that landmine on Lian Yu. He was still holding the rope he'd used to do it, but it slipped from his fingers, useless now, mission accomplished.

She watched as blood bloomed over his back, soaking his shirt.

He let out a strangled noise and she screamed. "Oliver!"

Shoving up to her feet, she scrambled to get to him.

Slade pulled his sword free and stepped back.

Oliver fell to his knees and Felicity wrapped her arms around him, desperately trying to hold him up. His head fell against her shoulder, making her wince as it stretched and pulled. She stroked a shaking hand over his face and shook her head. "I told you— I _told_ you not to sacrifice yourself for me," she choked out, tears spilling down her cheeks.

He stared up at her, sucking in halting breaths. "He had you… He was going to hurt you…" A tear slid from the corner of his eye as he reached up for her, his bloody hand cupping her cheek. She leaned into it as a sob broke from her lips. "There was no choice to make," he whispered.

Blinking back her tears, she raised her head to see Slade standing a few feet away, a confused look on his face.

"Please," she begged. "Please, don't let him die like this. He was your friend once."

He stared at her, a hollow look in his eye, and then he turned on his heel to walk away.

"Slade," she yelled. "_SLADE!_"

But he didn't stop. He left her there with a man she couldn't carry, her arms practically useless, a building filled with smoke and fire, falling around her. Holding Oliver to her, she searched his pockets for his phone and finally found it in the inside pocket of his jacket. She dialed 911 and told them to send an ambulance to Verdant, and then she called Lance, desperately asking him for help, babbling to the point where she wasn't even coherent. Finally, she let the phone fall from her fingers.

"I'll get you out," she told Oliver. "I'll drag you out if I have to. Okay?"

She struggled to move out from beneath him, remembering the day that she found out who he really was. How she'd tried so hard to get him from the car to the foundry before eventually having to ask Digg for help. But there was no John tonight, no Sara or Roy or Lance. So Felicity sunk her blood-slick hands under Oliver's armpits and she dragged him across the uneven floor of Verdant, her arms screaming at her in protest. The smoke was thick, making her cough and blink back tears. She tripped a few times over chunks of rubble, nearly falling through one of the holes to the foundry below, but eventually, bit by bit, she made it to the door leading outside.

Only to find it locked.

"Son of a bitch!" She slapped her hand against the door and yelled, kicking at it in frustration. Pushing and pushing, she tried using her shoulder to shove it open, even as pain ricocheted throughout her so completely that her vision went white.

Crying, she slid down to the floor, the door against her back and Oliver's head cradled in her lap.

She could just imagine it, Slade's last remaining sword slipped through the handles to keep her from opening it.

She laughed then, hysterical and defeated.

Oliver's fingers stroked her cheek, dashing away tears, and she looked down at him, staring up at her.

Shaking her head, she bent to kiss his lips, wet with his blood. She squeezed her eyes shut. "I love you," she whispered. "I love you, Oliver."

His hands curled in her hair and held on tight. "I'm sorry," he rasped. "I did this to you. It's my fault."

"No." She rubbed her thumb down his cheek. "No, it was my choice, okay?" She smiled at him then, her lips quivering. "I chose you and this life and every part of it. I will _always _choose you." Her tears dripped down to draw trails on his face.

"_Hey_…"

She stared down at him, one of her hands splayed over his heart, counting the beats, closing her eyes when she felt his heart slowing down.

"You remember… you asked me… if I had any happy stories," he slurred.

She nodded, rubbing her thumb over his chin. "Yeah."

"You're it," he breathed, looking up at her with bright blue eyes full of love and adoration and reverence. "You're my happy story." He smiled then as he said her name, "_Felicity_."

And with that, his fingers loosened in her hair and his eyes, overflowing with so much emotion just a moment ago, went blank and void and empty. He died with her name on his lips and she screamed so loud she thought her voice would dislodge the remaining foundation of the club, bringing it down on their heads and ending her absolute misery.

But it didn't.

Instead, she sat there, desperately holding the love of her life, inhaling smoke and dying a slow, empty death, until eventually she passed out, bent over him as if to save him from one last, invisible foe.

Felicity didn't believe in love at first sight.

But she believed in love.

She believed it could build as much as it could destroy. That it could triumph as much as it could fail. That it could consume as much as it could create. She believed she loved Oliver, with every breath in her body and every beat of her heart, with every smile and every laugh and every sigh. She loved him with every fibre of her being, fractured or otherwise. Before tragedy had eaten away at who she was and the family she'd chosen as her own. When their team was built on a vision of justice and her naïve hopes for a better world fueled her drive to help him. She loved him then. She loved him after. When the foundry whispered hollowly with the voices of people long lost, when their mission became a day-to-day race to survive. She loved him before and after and during.

And she always would.

[**Next**: Part III.]

* * *

**author's note**: _/ducks/ So... that happened. In my defense, I did set up a lot of foreshadowing. Actually, everything is just intensely foreshadowed all over the place, lol. I'd always planned for Oliver to die. I didn't enjoy writing it, but it had to happen to lead into the final arc of the story. I know a lot of you are probably really upset, feel free to tell me how much in a review of pure agony. _

_Thank you all for reading! I received such an amazing response to this and I was just so, so touched by how moved you all were. Even if it was completely depressing. I really appreciate all the feedback I received, and I tried to update last night, but my internet just went kaput on me. So I hope you guys are okay with only a two day wait. :) _

_I plan to have the next part out very soon. I could do it tomorrow, maybe before the episode? If you guys' want? _

_Please leave a review; they're my lifeblood, and this story killed me to write as much as it killed you to read it!_

- **Lee | Fina**


	3. Part Three

**title**: light a match, burn the world to ash (I will watch it die, and hold your hand as I fly)  
**category**: arrow  
**genre**: tragedy/romance  
**ship**: felicity/oliver  
**rating**: r  
**prompt**: olicity + revenge + happy ending optional - **anonymous** (Tumblr)  
**warning(s)**: multiple major character deaths, coarse language, sexual content, explicit violence  
**word count**: 14,738  
**overall status**: complete  
**summary**: When Slade comes for Team Arrow, he is unforgiving in his relentless pursuit for revenge. In the end, however, he shouldn't have underestimated Felicity.

**_light a match, burn the world to ash (I will watch it die, and hold your hand as I fly)  
_**-3/3-

**III**.

It would probably surprise people to learn that Felicity wasn't really a fan of happy endings. At least, not the ones that were so falsely bright after a truly horrific story. Why sugar-coat it? Sometimes life didn't get better, people didn't miraculously live through disease and misfortune, falling in love didn't always end in marriage, and the hero didn't always come out triumphant. She preferred the realistic endings. The ones where people said, "Hey, I don't know what's going to happen now, but I really hope it's better than what happened before."

In real life, she always hoped for the happy ending. She cheered for the underdog and believed truth and justice would always prevail. She tried to be honest in her life, to be a good person who gave back and did what she could to make the world a better place. Prior to Oliver, that mostly meant recycling and not using her hacking abilities to make a few crooked politicians eat their ill-advised actions through pain of empty bank accounts. With Oliver, she found a new way to help the world, and also a new way to view it. The rose-tinted glasses were damaged by the time the earthquake machine knocked down half of the Glades. They were all but gone by the time Slade destroyed three-quarters of her team.

It was easy to believe that a happy ending could still prevail when, despite all odds, the protagonist continued to stand up, to fight back, to raise their head high and say, "No more," against the injustice that faced them. It wasn't as easy when the reality was that she didn't see herself as that protagonist. She was the quirky sidekick that somehow managed to snag the hero.

So, what was a sidekick supposed to do when faced with a super-villain like Slade Wilson?

In the movie that ends happy, she would find some clever (if slightly over-the-top) way to defeat him before finding peace in the world she was left with, rebuilding it bit by bit. Maybe she would meet someone new, years down the line, someone who would silently (because love interests never got as much screen time or dialogue) represent rebirth, and she would ride off into the sunset with him, toward a happily ever after that she deserved but never expected to have.

The problem she had with those happy endings was that they weren't really endings. They were beginnings that left the audience with the option of wondering where it all went or assuming that it ended with marriage and babies and dying of old age, warm in their beds. The truth was much more complicated than that. And, really, there was only one man she wanted to do any of that with.

So, what then was the real ending to her tragic story of love and loss?

* * *

When Felicity woke, she expected to still be in that club. She expected the overwhelming heat, her hair damp with sweat, her legs dripping with the blood seeping from Oliver's back. She expected the weight of his head in her lap and the firm, unmoving press of the doors at her back. Instead, she blinked bleary eyes open to see an off-white ceiling, a steady beeping noise irritating her ears. Her eyes were so dry they stung, her throat even more so, making it painful when she tried to swallow.

Her eyes darted around in confusion until she saw Quentin Lance sitting in a chair beside her, his head rested on a fist, eyes closed.

She blinked at him, registering the oxygen mask she was wearing, and she looked up and to her right to the see the machine there, monitoring her heart.

She was alive. Lance had come to get them out of the club.

Her heart started racing.

How soon?

Did he get there in time? Were they able to revive Oliver? Was that a pointless hope when she'd felt him die there in her arms?

Her rising heartbeat must've tipped Lance off because he woke suddenly, his eyes shooting open. He stood from his chair and moved toward her, a hand finding hers and squeezing.

His concerned and weary face stared down at her and Felicity felt tears bite at her eyes. Her brows hiked in a silent question.

Hoarsely, he told her, "I'm so sorry."

She squeezed her eyes shut, tears slipping out from beneath, and shook her head.

His hand squeezed tighter around hers. "We got there… They're guessing minutes after you passed out. I… There was a—a sword or something, it was shoved through the door handles. We got it out, opened it up, and there you two were. We… They tried to get Oliver. They tried to resuscitate him, but… It was too late." He swallowed thickly. "I'm sorry. I… I know how much he meant to you."

Felicity's free hand rose to her throat as she choked on a sob. Her shoulders stabbed with pain, but she ignored it. Clawing at the wires and the tubing, she yanked her oxygen mask off and out of her way. She sucked in air desperately, suddenly feeling too surrounded by the blankets and the machines and the closed curtains around her bed. She needed the mask off and the IV out and the scratchy hospital-issue gown she was wearing replaced.

Lance hit a button to raise the bed for her and helped her get the oxygen mask out of the way. "Okay, okay," he soothed, rubbing her arm as she cried.

He was awkward for a long moment, not sure how to help her, but he stayed and he waited and he held her hand.

It took a long few minutes before she could get herself to stop, before the numbness began to seep into her and spread over her body, making her feel hollow and separated from her body. She stared at the blanket over her lap, a pale blue, and picked at a loose thread.

Lance offered her a pair of glasses. Not the ones she'd been wearing that night, but a spare pair. Thea? She wondered. Maybe she'd gone to her apartment to get her things.

A cup of ice chips was offered to her next. "You, uh… You had to have surgery on your shoulder. Stitches on the one, surgery on the stab wound. Looked like you pulled a few things… Maybe from, uh, trying to drag Oliver out…?"

She took the cup and held it in her lap. Slowly, she brought ice chips up to her mouth, letting them melt on her tongue as she stared aimlessly in front of her. "Are you asking me for my statement, Detective Lance?"

He didn't correct her like he used to. _It's Officer now, remember_? This time he let it pass.

"If you're up to it, I'd like to hear the story. On or off the record's up to you. I, uh… I'm here as a friend, Miss Smoak, not as a police officer."

She turned her eyes to look at him a moment.

A friend.

What a funny concept since all of her friends were dead.

Weren't they?

What did that make Thea then?

An image of Slade suddenly ran through her head and the answer to that was clear.

She was a loose end.

Or maybe a casualty. Not a dead one, obviously, but one who had suffered as much, if not more, by having to survive and bury the rest.

Still, the fact remained, Felicity's friends tended to die, and she didn't want that for the man sitting beside her.

See, without friends, being the last one standing, that made Felicity one thing.

A cockroach at the end of a nuclear war.

And maybe that was better.

"You found a duffle bag with the suit in it, didn't you?" she asked.

He was quiet for a moment before clearing his throat. "Yeah. I did."

She didn't have to ask, "Then you know?" because what was the point? All of his suspicions had finally been confirmed. Hooray for him. It wasn't as if it changed anything. He couldn't bring Oliver back to prosecute him for his crimes. He couldn't yell at Oliver for all that he'd done, all the mistakes he'd made, whether he'd managed to turn Lance's opinion of him around or not. The hood had been unmasked, but now he was dead.

So instead, she said, "I want it. It's mine now."

And Lance sighed, that long, heavy sigh that reminded her that he'd buried a daughter twice, his family had fallen apart only to reunite and fall apart again, and he had every reason to be weary.

"You want the swords too?" he asked, in that kind of snorting, 'what the hell's a matter with people' way of his.

She turned to look at him, her eyes dark and empty. "I do."

He stared back at her, his mouth a grim line, and gave a short nod.

There wasn't much to say after that.

She wondered if, when he'd sat down beside her, he'd expected someone else to wake up. Someone still hopeful. Still sweet and naïve and eager to believe that there was something good left in the world.

She wondered if he was disappointed with who he found instead.

She wondered, but she wasn't sure she cared.

* * *

Felicity checked herself out against doctor's orders two days after she woke up in the hospital. Lance wheeled her outside in her wheel chair to his cop car and drove her back to her apartment. He didn't ask if she was all right. She could see the question poised there at the end of his tongue, desperate to ask what he already knew the answer to, but he didn't. When they pulled up out front, she didn't let him get out to walk her upstairs.

"I'll be fine from here," she lied, picking up the plastic bag with her belongings inside; the clothes she'd been wearing, her jewelry, and a battered pair of glasses. She'd wanted Oliver's too, but the police had confiscated it all for their investigation.

As she was climbing out of the car, Lance's hand on her arm made her pause. "Here. What, uh, what we talked about before… I got the swords out of the evidence locker, too." He dug the duffle bag out from the back seat and handed it to her. "Nobody else saw the suit. After I found it, I had the place locked down, nobody in or out. There was a lot of stuff downstairs I didn't think you wanted people finding out about. Not sure you know what you want done with it. I can only pull so many strings for so long, y'know?"

She nodded, taking the duffle bag from him. "I'll take care of it," she said simply, glancing at him briefly before pushing the door open.

As she stepped out, he called to her, "Hey…"

She looked back.

"The funeral… They're having it at Queen Manor. You need a ride, you want someone to stand with you, I can do that, just call, all right?"

She stared at him, the kind man that knew too much and helped so many. "All right." With that, she closed the door and turned, making her way up the cement stairs leading into her building. It wasn't until she was standing in front of it that she realized she didn't have her keys, not to the building or to the apartment. She had a spare with her neighbor, but that didn't help her to get into her building. For just a moment, she felt overwhelmed, frustrated to the point of tears. Swallowing it back, she blinked her eyes closed, took in a deep breath, and walked over to the panel on the side, dressed in tenant's names. She pressed the button to her neighbor, old Miss Craigflower, and asked her if she could please let her in. She'd lost her keys and would need the ones she had as well to get inside her apartment.

"Oh, of course dear, of course," Miss Craigflower said.

The door buzzed and Felicity pulled it open, wincing as her shoulder twinged. She had pain medication for that, but sometimes she liked it, accepting the pain as penance for living when Oliver didn't. When Digg, Sara, and Roy had all died.

She took the elevator to her floor and offered Miss Craigflower a tired smile as she prattled on about how often she lost her own keys and could understood Felicity's predicament. She gave Felicity back her spare key and patted her on the shoulder, telling her to get some sleep, she looked like the living dead. And then she shuffled off to her apartment and Felicity made her way inside her own, closing the door behind her with a thud.

It felt wrong, being there when he wasn't. It had felt wrong since she woke up and didn't have him there beside her. She kept reaching out to her side, searching for his hand, and coming up with air.

She dropped her spare key into the little bowl on the table, where her and Oliver's keys used to rest together at the end of the day. She kicked off her shoes, a pair of flats Thea had brought her, though she'd yet to see her since waking. She imagined Thea had other things on her mind, others to be with, her mother namely. Truthfully, Felicity wasn't sure she could bear to sit down with Thea and explain what had happened, to spin some tale about how her brother died that wouldn't immediately bring Thea back to the truth.

Felicity made her way through the apartment, feeling, for once, like it was too large for her. She remembered, more times than she could count, Oliver complaining that her apartment was too small, they should get something bigger, a nice condo or a penthouse with a view. Her rebuttal was that it was home and it was cozy and it only seemed small because he was so big, and he would laugh and kiss her and tell her he'd live in the gutter as long as she lived with him.

Tears bit at her eyes as she closed them.

"3… 2… 1," she whispered to herself, trying to tamp down on the emotions that swirled inside her with such intensity that she could barely breathe.

Making her way to the bedroom, she unrolled the plastic bag and pulled the contents out. An arrow shaped cartilage bar, a pair of dangly silver earrings, her charm bracelet, her glasses, and, finally, the stiff clothing she'd been wearing, dried with blood. She shoved her clothes back in the bag and tossed it toward the garbage can beside her dresser.

Her jewelry was dirty, some of it with blood, others with soot. She took it all to the bathroom to rinse off, focusing on the task for a long few minutes.

When she returned to her bedroom, she felt lost.

The bed was unmade. Or, at least, Oliver's side was. That was a habit of his.

Sighing, she started undressing from the clothes she'd changed into only an hour ago. She stripped it all away and put them in the laundry hamper alongside her and Oliver's clothes from earlier in the week before she made her way back to her bathroom for a shower. She turned the handles to as hot as they would go, nearly scalding her skin as she stood under the steady beat of the water hammering at her back. She scrubbed away the smell of hospital, using the frilly yellow loofah that Oliver always told her was bright enough to burn his retinas, though that never stopped him from plucking it up to clean her back when they showered together.

The shower seemed so big and empty without him.

When the water began to cool down, she finally shut it off and climbed out. Mechanically, she brushed her teeth and combed her hair before toweling herself off and making her way back to her bedroom.

Standing in front of her closet, she pulled out one of Oliver's dress shirts and wrapped herself in it, buttoning the front and moving to her dresser to grab out a pair of wool socks.

"Your feet are like ice," he always told her, flinching when her toes rubbed up against his calves.

Blinking back tears, she walked to her bed, climbing in on her side and reaching across to where the covers were messy, the blanket half tossed over to her side. She rested her hand there, where he used to lay, and closed her eyes.

She turned her head down to her pillow as she began to cry and fell asleep just like that. For two days, she wandered in and out of sleep, stumbling off to use the bathroom here or there before returning to her previous place on her bed. Sometimes she would dream that Slade came for her, that he slipped in through the window like Oliver always feared, and plunged one or both of his swords through her heart. The pain of it would hurt less than how she felt now. But he didn't. So she was left there to fall apart, reaching for someone who wasn't, and would never be, there.

On the third day, she got out of bed.

She showered and ate something and dressed in a black sheath dress and the blandest of her flats. She tied her hair back in a ponytail and didn't bother with make-up or jewelry. When she was finished getting ready, she called for a cab and gave the driver directions to Queen Manor. While the mob of paparazzi and news outlets were not allowed permission to enter the property, clustering outside the gates, security waved her through, recognizing her immediately. Felicity gave little mind to the flashbulbs going off as they caught sight of her arrival. She didn't answer the questions being shouted at her through the closed taxi window. They were aware of who she was, though she was sure they didn't know she was there the night that Oliver died. It seemed the only detail never mentioned on the news during her stay in the hospital, when she'd torturously watched every bit of media coverage they had on what had happened.

The taxi stopped in front of Queen Manor and one of the staff hurried to get the door open for her. Felicity paid the driver and climbed out, steadied by the staff's hand under her elbow. She was expecting Raisa, but found Orlando instead, one of the security guards that had been recommended by John.

"They haven't started yet. Everyone is in the parlour," he informed her.

She nodded, but instead of moving inside, she asked, "Has Detective Lance arrived yet?"

He shook his head. "I don't think so. I know Miss Queen is hiding in the kitchen."

"Thank you."

She hesitated for a moment. Did she go to Thea or wait for Lance?

Eventually, Felicity found herself wandering around the grounds instead, making her way around the back, to where she knew the funeral would be held. They already had a headstone for him, why waste it?

Was his casket here? She wondered. Had they buried him early or was was Oliver just sitting in wait while the guests ate hors d' oeuvres and talked about what little they knew of Oliver Queen? Because his best friends, the closest people in his life, the people that really knew him, most of them were dead, and the remaining few she could count on one hand. Though she hesitated to call Lance a friend of his, or maybe she thought Lance would hesitate in calling himself a friend of Oliver's. Regardless, he was the only one besides herself that knew Oliver's true identity. The remaining three people that mattered in Oliver's life were in the dark on that particular matter. She wondered if Laurel had come. If she was driven to drinking again. She hadn't seen much of her since Sara's death; she wasn't sure how Laurel had coped with the loss of her sister a second time. And now she was losing someone else she cared about.

Felicity walked silently toward the two graves, the grounds already dressed with wreaths of flowers and a picture of Oliver's grinning face. She was both relieved and saddened to see that it was a fairly recent picture, meaning his smile wasn't that cocky, shit-eating grin he'd once worn for all the paparazzi. This one was genuine; she knew because he was laughing at something John had said, the wrinkles around his eyes showing. A moment captured when the grief and loss of Sara and Roy was beginning to ebb just a little, when he had started to laugh and smile again. It was a week before John died and then those smiles became much rarer.

She walked to the picture, her head tipped to the side, and reached for it, her fingers delicately tracing the arch of his cheeks and the lines around his eyes. God, but he was handsome. Her fingers fell to his smiling lips and she let out a tiny, shuddering sigh.

"Feels like a lie, doesn't it?"

Her head swiveled to find Thea standing a few short feet away.

"She tried to pick a happy picture. Because that's how we like to remember people. Not as who they are but who we want them to be… Or who we wish they still were." Thea wandered closer, hugging her arms around herself, looking small and willowy and like a harsh wind might blow her away at any second. "He didn't smile like that a lot, though. I mean, sometimes you could surprise him, catch him off guard, and he'd slip up and he'd laugh or grin and… just for a second, you'd feel that dark cloud lift. But… It always came back."

Felicity stared at her staring at Oliver's blown up face on a piece of cardboard, waiting by a headstone that had to have the date of his death fixed to fit current circumstances.

"I should probably be polite and ask you how you're doing and coping and all of that empty _shit_ but, I think we both know the answer." Thea's gaze shifted up to meet Felicity's. "You were there with him, you saw it happen. They said you held him while he died, so… I mean, what's the point in asking, right?"

Thea laughed then; a choked, angry, anguished noise lifting from her throat. "I want to be angry at you and ask you why you couldn't save him… Because you did before. You brought him back from that edge, over and over again, and I… I saw him falling apart, I saw him after Sara died and Diggle died and he—he clung to you. You were like, his lifesaver, you know? So part of me is really, really angry because I thought that, whatever happened, you'd bring him back. I know that it's illogical and stupid and you couldn't save him..." She blinked her tears back quickly.

"I mean, I have no idea what happened that night. The club was basically blown up and you were stuck inside and… and Oliver, his phone went off at dinner, and he ran out of the house so quickly that we never got an answer why, and that… that was the last time I saw him. He just… He said he had to go and he kissed my cheek and then we was gone…" She hugged herself tighter, her voice getting thicker. "And the next thing I know, Officer Lance is telling me that my brother is dead and you're in the hospital and I don't… I don't know what to do anymore because it feels like everybody is just always leaving me and dying on me and I… I'm so an-angry."

Felicity didn't have words for her. She didn't have platitudes or excuses or anything. So she reached out and she hugged Thea, gathering her close and wrapping her arms around her tightly. There was no alcohol for them to drown their sorrows in, no stories to share that would make it right; they just clung to one another, holding each other up as the world seemed so eager to knock them down.

It wouldn't be long later that people began to come out to the field, to say goodbye to a man they hardly knew. Felicity let go of Thea so she could stand with her mother, the two Queens standing tall against their loss, raising those chins up high as a man of God spoke of a man who had seen purgatory and survived, only to die in an act of sacrifice.

Felicity stepped back, away from the crowd. She watched with a sort of distorted, disconnected understanding that nearly none of them, none of the people crying into their handkerchiefs or grieving for Oliver, had any idea who he truly was underneath that smile plastered for them to see. She watched as they laid flowers at his grave and paused to say farewell to his picture before eventually moving on back to the house.

When she was left alone once more, she walked back to the grave and knelt in the damp grass, tracing the letter of his name with the tip of her finger. And the pain, the loss, the agony that had been swamping her for days lifted, replaced with a numb, detached acceptance of what had to be done.

When Felicity rose, she was a different person.

She had a mission.

When she walked away with the face of a grinning Oliver at her back, she felt nothing but vengeance burning in her heart.

She wondered, briefly, if this was what Slade felt. If this was what had consumed him to the point that he had wanted nothing more than to destroy Oliver and everyone he loved.

She looked up as she passed the parlour and found Thea staring at her from the window. Whether the younger woman knew what she was going to do or had any idea of the change that had occurred, Felicity didn't know. But Thea raised her hand up and pressed it to the glass. Felicity wasn't sure if she was reaching out or waving, but Felicity lifted her hand in answer.

To her, it was goodbye.

* * *

Finding Nyssa hadn't been easy.

She supposed it wasn't meant to be, her being an assassin and all.

But find her, Felicity did.

Or, well, maybe Nyssa found her.

"I was prepared to give you leniency for all of your searching, but this… is unacceptable."

Felicity whirled around, gripping a gun John had given her in her hand as she stared down the beautiful, poised woman who stood, an eyebrow raised, giving Felicity a cursive, dismissive look-over.

"I will commend you for your skills, though. There are few that could have come this far, or this close, and lived to tell the tale."

Felicity pursed her lips. "We have… We _had_ a common friend, once."

"Friend." Nyssa gave a faint scoff. "I have none of those."

Felicity nearly reconsidered for a moment, but then said, "Sara. Sara Lance. She was… She mattered to you. Once."

For an assassin who had likely spent a great deal of time learning how to hide her true emotions, Nyssa did not hide her flinch in that moment. She inhaled deeply through her nose and then narrowed her eyes at Felicity. "You have ten seconds to convince me why I shouldn't slit your pretty throat right here."

"I know who killed her. And I want you to teach me how to kill him."

A second passed, and then another, and Nyssa finally took a step closer. Just as Felicity though perhaps she'd made an error in judgement and Nyssa would kill her long before she'd have a chance to get anywhere close to Slade, the dragging noise of a chair being pulled across the floor snapped her to attention.

Nyssa took a seat, her hands braced on her knees, her back impossibly straight, and said, "Go on."

* * *

"Tell me again why you are doing this," Nyssa said, looking down at Felicity as she lay in a crumpled heap on the ground, sore and beaten and almost completely sure that one of her ribs was bruised, if not broken.

"For Sara."

"No." Nyssa pursed her lips. "Perhaps in part, yes. But tell me who brought you here. Tell me why they matter."

"It _is _for Sara," she argued, glaring up at her. "And Roy and John and…" Her voice trailed off, her throat burning.

"And?" Nyssa circled her, twisting a dagger in her hands, letting it slip over and under her fingers like it was air, moving with such grace that Felicity was sure it would only ever cut someone Nyssa deemed worthy of it. As if the blade itself had curbed its innate drive to harm in respect of her. "I hear you say his name while you sleep, little one. Why not say it now, in the light of day? Or is the pain so raw that it would break you?" She knelt then, looking at Felicity with knowing eyes. "Do you know what you must do with that pain? Do you understand how it can make you as much and as clearly as it can break you?" She shook her head, a fire lighting her eyes. "Pain is nothing more than a reminder that you can either suffer or make others suffer instead of you."

"That's a bit of a black and white way of seeing it."

"All of us suffer. We can lie and say that it is our duty to feel that pain, but there is not one person alive who would not rather someone feel that burden for them." She held a hand out, waiting for Felicity to take it, and then yanked her from the floor.

Felicity groaned, reaching over to grip her ribs as they protested.

"The kind thing to do would be to let you rest and heal, but if you are to learn how to kill, you must learn how to hurt." Nyssa took Felicity's chin in her hand and raised it so they were eye to eye. "You remind me of her. She was all fire and pain, half dead inside and willing to do anything to survive. But where Sara wanted to survive, you only want to make another suffer. I wonder, do you know what you will do when he is dead. Have you asked yourself that?"

Felicity breathed hard through her gritted teeth. "I'll figure it out later, when he's gone."

Tsking under her breath, Nyssa graced her with as close to a pitying look as the woman had in her. "Vengeance only lasts as long as your enemy lives. When he dies, so does what drives you, and then you are left with nothing." Taking a step back, she said, "Perhaps when you are finished, you will return to me, and I will show you how to live beyond that."

Felicity leaned down and grabbed up a bō staff from the floor, hissing at the pain on her side. She raised it up, letting Nyssa know the conversation was over for now. Truthfully, Felicity had no idea what she would do after Slade was dead. Usually, when she dreamt of what it would be like, it ended with Slade. There was nothing after that. Roll credits. And maybe she didn't want to know. Maybe not knowing was better.

Because maybe there wasn't anything after it. Maybe there was never meant to be.

* * *

There was a time when she thought her life could be better. When, even though they had Slade breathing down their necks, she thought she and Oliver had a future. Yes, she got tired of constantly being ready and waiting for the day he would pop up on their radar and spring his trap, but that didn't mean she didn't enjoy the time she did get with Oliver. If anything, sometimes that made it all the more special. Because she knew it could end at any moment, she tried to enjoy it to the fullest while it was happening.

And she knew Oliver felt the same. She knew it like she knew that John died with the certainty that he had done good in the world, he had left a legacy he could be proud of. She knew it like she knew code would never fail her, a faithful friend that had served her well since the first time a computer had been put in front of her. She knew it like she knew the sun would rise every morning, despite how dark the nights often seemed.

_Oliver was making breakfast, or, more accurately, _burning_ breakfast, when she found a ring tucked in the sock drawer. _

_It was an accident; she hadn't gone looking for something like that. But there it was, a blue satin box staring back at her that she'd snooped in because, well, she hated mysteries and her birthday was coming up and she was wondering if he got her those cute koala head earrings she'd been hinting at. But inside, on a bed of satin, was a diamond engagement ring. Logically, she knew she should close the top, stuff it back under the socks, and just let things progress as they should. _

_Instead, she plucked that ring up from the box and walked out into the kitchen in a daze. _

_Oliver was frowning down at the frying pan in front of him, his sweatpants slung low on his hips, shirt missing, feet bare, hair in disarray and his face scruffy. If she hadn't been completely distracted, she would've been wholly turned on. Which was a pretty regular thing for her around him anyway. _

_"So I burned the first batch of French toast, but I think my second batch might survive," he told her, spatula in hand while he raised a cup of coffee up to his mouth. "If not, I'm thinking scrambled eggs. Sound good?" When she didn't answer right away, he frowned, turning to look at her. "Felic—" He paused, spotting the ring she held up. "You… Where'd you get that?" _

_"Where did I…" She blinked rapidly. "Oliver, you didn't exactly hide it in Mount Doom. It was in the sock drawer. The sock drawer that we share. Literally, I found it stuffed under a pair of my favorite wool socks and those weirdly silky socks you like to wear so much. My feet were cold, so, you know, logical step, wool socks. And the next thing I know, blue satin box, and then this. This right here. Which looks a lot like an engagement ring, I'd like to point out." She pointed at it with her free hand before making a weird, frantic motion with it. _

_Oliver stared at her, mouth slightly ajar._

_"Say something!" she told him. "Something along the lines of 'why yes, Felicity, that is an engagement ring, let me explain.' And then,_ explain."

_Pursing his lips at her, he sighed. "I'm pretty sure it's self-explanatory."_

_Her eyes widened. "No!" She wagged her finger at him. "No, it is _not_ self-explanatory. It is you-need-to-explain-why-I-just-found-an-engagement-ring-in-the-sock-drawer is what it is. Because, let's face it, we are basically waiting for Slade Wilson to bust in the window or door at any given moment and kill one or both of us. I don't know about you, but getting married doesn't seem like the next logical step. I mean, have I thought about it? Yes, of course! Probably before we even got together, which is neither here nor there or anywhere. The point is, getting married right now would be like asking for the Red Wedding. The Rains of Castamere would play as he snipered me from the roof of Queen Manor just before I said 'I do.'"_

_"So you would say yes, if I asked you?"_

_Felicity waved her hand around. "Out of everything I just said, that was all you heard?!"_

_"No. I heard the rest, and I agree. But just so we're on the same page… If I asked you to marry me, you'd say yes. And if we weren't sure Slade was going to kill you to make a spectacle of it and completely send me over the edge, we'd have a wedding at the manor, in the spring, and you'd wear your bubbe's pearls."_

_"Well, I didn't mention the spring or bubbe's pearls, but those are both true." Sighing, her shoulders slumped. "Do you honestly think I would say no to marrying you? I mean, even knowing what Slade would do, I still can't help but think 'wow, this ring is gorgeous' and 'oh, Felicity Megan Queen has a nice ring to it, and 'yes, I'd totally marry you, even if you always put the milk carton back in the fridge when it's empty, and you never make your side of the bed, and it's really unfair how you always smell prettier than me.' So yes, my first instinct was definitely to shout 'let's do it' but I can't think like that. _We_ can't afford to think like that, not right now."_

_With a heavy sigh, he nodded, walking toward her with slow, measured steps. "I know."_

_Frustrated, she shook her head. "If you know, then why…" She waved the ring at him. _

_He half-smiled and plucked the ring from her fingers. "Felicity, I've had this ring for seven months."_

_Her heart thumped hard in her chest. _

_"But I know I can't give it to you until this thing with Slade is over. I know that our lives are basically on hold until this ends. So we can live here, safe in this little bubble of ours, pretending that things aren't as bad as they really are. But while I want us to move forward, I want to ask you to marry me and put this ring on your finger, I know that's impossible right now. So I've kept it put away, until the day comes that we don't have to worry about snipers on the roof or bombs hidden on the jet as we leave for our honeymoon or assassinations of any kind…" He frowned, staring down at the ring with a thoughtful look on his face. "When I bought this ring, it was a promise to myself that we could have that. That one day, this thing would Slade would end, and we could have a real life together; a future… The thing is, I don't know when that'll be. I don't know if it'll be tomorrow or next year or ten years from now. But I do know that I want it with you. I know that, whatever happens, you're it for me. And I know it's difficult to live like this. I know I'm asking a lot of you and that, by being with me, I'm putting you in danger. And that… it terrifies me. It rips me apart that I'm the reason you could die." He swallowed thickly and shook his head. "If I knew that pushing you away would keep you safe, I would. Even though it would destroy me not to have you here, by my side. I would push you as far away as I could. But I know that if I do, he'll find you." His voice gave out for a second before he said, "I won't risk that. I won't risk you." _

_She stared at him, her heart thudding loud in her ears, and her eyes fell to where that beautiful ring rested between his fingers. "Okay."_

_He raised an eyebrow. "Okay?"_

_She nodded. Reaching for his hand, she squeezed her fingers around his. "When he's gone, when it's over, then you can ask, and I'll say yes." _

_He stared at her a long moment, searching her eyes, and then a faint smile turned up his lips. Slowly, that smile turned into a full-fledged grin, and he chuckled under his breath as he leaned forward to kiss her. _

_Their moment was short-lived, however, as the fire alarm started blaring. _

_Oliver's second try at French toast had burned; scrambled eggs it was then._

She wondered sometimes, if he always knew he would end up sacrificing himself, and that buying the engagement ring and the idea of getting married had just been one last desperate grab at hope for another outcome. She knew Oliver. She knew that some part of him had been ready for this. He'd known it might culminate in his or her death. She knew he must've prepared himself for the moment where he might have to sacrifice himself for her, even when she said not to. Just as she knew that he would never want her to carry out this drive for vengeance. He would want her to have some safe, normal life, far away from the death and danger she'd encountered with him. But it was her choice. And she chose revenge.

* * *

Felicity spent three years training with Nyssa, and she was a terrible student when she started. She was all arms and legs that did nothing more than trip over each other. But, for all that she was a merciless assassin, Nyssa had patience, and while she might have put Felicity out of her misery if she'd been anyone else, she seemed to respect her for wanting to destroy Slade. Of course, Felicity never told Nyssa who the man was that had killed Sara. Because she knew if she did, her mentor would disappear into the night to get revenge of her own. That didn't stop Nyssa from asking and, if it hadn't been for Felicity's friendship with Sara, she thought Nyssa might have tortured the answer out of her otherwise. But Nyssa allowed her to go on, she trained her to fight, and, perhaps, she even took some comfort in the idea that, while she wouldn't be the one to put Slade down herself, she had trained the person who would, like an extension of her own rage and grief.

Felicity had no idea how much time had truly passed. It was a haze of fighting and ice baths and muscles that didn't have familiar hands to rub away the ache. She missed her training sessions with Oliver. How, when he knew she was feeling particularly tired or bruised up, he would take her feet into his lap and paint her toe nails for her. Or he'd come in as she was relaxing in her bath and have her shuffle forward so that she could dip her head back into the water and wash her hair for her. She missed how he took care of her, how he showed how much he loved her, how he kissed her bruises away and held her a little tighter each night as they went to sleep. Now, she slept alone, fitfully most nights, never quite comfortable when her body felt so achy.

Eventually, though, those aches and pains were fewer and farther between. Her body was molded into something else, something that could withstand pain. Something that moved with grace and anticipated attack. Something focused, driven, and completely aware. When she fought now, she did so silently, with such agility that the old her would have been amazed. When Nyssa brought in others, trained assassins, to fight Felicity, she stood off to the side and watched as Felicity destroyed them. Not with conviction, not with anger or desperation. She put them down because when they attacked, it was her instinct to attack back, to be better, to prevail.

She didn't kill them, though. No matter how many times Nyssa told her that if the assassins that faced her failed to win, they deserved to die. The only blood her hands would wear would be Slade Wilson's. It was a vow she'd made that day she knelt at Oliver's grave, and it was a vow she would keep.

The day she left Nyssa's company, with all the skills she would ever have, all the knowledge and certainty that if there was any chance she could kill Slade, she now had it, she did not hug the woman who had trained her. She did not thank her or cry or tell her that she would miss her now that the likelihood of them ever seeing each other again was slim to none. Instead, she hitched the bag of what few belongings she had up on her shoulder, and she told her, "His name was Oliver."

And Nyssa looked at her with a faint smile and said, "I know."

Swallowing tightly, she admitted, "He died saving me."

"And now you kill to honor him." Nyssa stared at her searchingly for a moment. "Would he want that for you?"

Felicity fingered the strap of her bag and answered honestly, "No. But he's not here to stop me."

Nyssa reached for her, fingers tucked under Felicity's chin, and then she leaned forward and she pressed a soft, farewell kiss to her forehead. "Go with honor, little one."

Felicity nodded and turned on her heel to walk away, her head held high. When she killed Slade, she would find a way to thank Nyssa for all that she'd given her.

* * *

For the next six months, she did nothing but search for Slade. She tracked him all over the world, showing up some places just days after he'd left to somewhere else. She caught a few hours of sleep here or there while researching and chasing what few trails he'd left behind in each place he'd been. It was exhausting, but it was necessary.

Some days she looked in the mirror and didn't recognize herself. She didn't recognize the glint in her eyes that demanded blood or the graceful way she walked that looked as lethal as a panther out for a kill. She was Death and she had only one target. She was not the woman Oliver had fallen in love with or Digg had befriended. She wasn't Sara's drinking buddy or Roy's mother hen. She wasn't an IT girl or an executive assistant. She wasn't anything but vengeance and sorrow and a part of her wore those like a badge of honor. This was what he had created, and when he met his end, he would know that.

But there were times when something else would bleed through, something desperately untouched by her hatred driven lust for revenge.

Some nights, she fell asleep convinced that Oliver was still holding her, still wrapped around her, face buried in her hair or her neck, mouthing kisses over her skin and whispering his 'I love you's' into her ear. She woke up each morning and kept her eyes closed to let her dream linger. She could almost smell him and feel him and hear his steady breathing beside her. But then her eyes would creep open and there would be no one and nothing there. So she would shove herself up out of bed and push her body toward exhaustion, training and fighting and searching.

A little over six months later, she found Slade in Belgium, sitting in an opulent office with a stunning view of Brussels. The dark paneled walls were dressed in old, oil paintings, the likes of which only the wealthy could afford to buy. His room was furnished with a pair of leather sofas, side tables corner either of them, a minibar, some plants, and an expensive looking rug. It wasn't the sleek, modern, windows and steel of Oliver's office, but it seemed to suit Slade much better.

He was at his desk, hand poised over a paper as he signed something or other. When she stepped up behind him, she was silent.

_"Like the wind," Nyssa told her, moving through the room, dressed so darkly she could see absolutely nothing. Nyssa moved so quickly and so silently that Felicity had never been able to pin down where she was, twisting her head in every direction, her voice seeming to come from every corner. "When you strike, he can never know it is coming. He must think he is safe, and when he believes it so, then you will show him he never was." _

A sword in either hand, she laid them over his shoulder, crossed at the nape of his neck.

"It's been too long," she greeted.

He went still, his shoulders tensed, and then he raised his head. "Not as long as I had hoped, I'll admit."

"Did you think I'd just forget? Move on? Wait for you to come for me again?"

"No," he said simply, turning his head a little so he could see her. "I was wrong, Miss Smoak. You weren't Shado at all... You were _me_."

Her eyes narrowed. "Do you want pity now? Because I know what it feels like." She searched his face, defined planes that might have been handsome if not for the cruelty she knew him for. "You think I'll sympathize because now that I know what it's like to miss someone so desperately… To _blame _yourself for their death." Her voice shook, but she told herself it was with rage and not the torment of knowing that it was true. It was her fault. Oliver was gone because of her.

"No. No sympathy," he said, laying his pen down. "I had none for you, so I expect the same in return."

"It'd be easy, you know, to take your head like this… An _homage_, right? To Roy this time."

"It would. But you won't."

"Won't I?" She scoffed. "I'm not the same person you left to die in that club. I'm not the same woman that buried three friends."

"No. I can see that you aren't. But killing me like that… it wouldn't fit with the dream, would it?"

She frowned at him.

"Don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you." He turned in his chair so he was facing her better, the cross of her swords sitting at his Adam's apple now. "You'll offer me a sword like I did you, only his time you'll know how to fight with one. This time you won't fall and Oliver won't swoop in to save you. This time you plan to win, not just escape."

She glared, because yes, fine, that was exactly what she'd dreamt of when she planned this. A redo, of sorts. Only it wasn't, not really. Nothing was going to bring them back. Nothing was going to take her back to that moment before Oliver interfered and laid down his life for hers. Nothing was going to make any of this better.

"I was going to let him live, you know."

Felicity raised an eyebrow and let out a scoff.

"Imagine it." He leaned back in his chair, hands stacked atop his stomach. "He would have to live with all that loss. He would have to live feeling the way you do now." He searched her eyes. "Do you know _why _I wanted to hurt him?"

"Shado," she answered simply.

"Oh, I blame him for her, absolutely. If he had only made the right choice, she would still be here, still be alive."

"You don't know that. That island wasn't called Purgatory for nothing. She could have died at any point."

"Maybe. But do you know what made it so much worse…?" His face clouded with anger. "He lied to me. After everything, after all I did to keep that boy alive, he let her die and he told me he had nothing to do with it. And then, he tried to kill me. Oh, he can spin it any way he likes. That I was insane. That the mirakuru made me a mindless killer. But the truth is, he was no more loyal to me than he was anyone else. He manipulated who he had to in order to survive. And maybe I should appreciate that. I'm a solder, after all. I know the things a man has to do in war to stay alive. But for a time, Oliver was my brother. We had only each other to rely on, stuck on that godforsaken island." He gritted his teeth then. "He made his choice and it wasn't me or Shado. He was still the same selfish boy who washed up and he always would be."

"You're wrong." Felicity shook her head, her hair swishing at her back. "While you're still stuck on that island, carrying the weight of every death, using Shado as an _excuse _to kill anybody who gets in your way, Oliver changed. He grew up and he became something so much better. He became hope and honor and loyalty. So, maybe you knew somebody else and maybe he made mistakes, maybe he broke your heart, but that doesn't make what you did any better."

"So that's it then?" He grinned at her. "You've washed away his sins and now you plan to kill his killer?"

"He died with his sins. He'll never let them go. Guilt was his favorite companion. But I _will _kill you." She took a step back then and circled around to the center of his office.

Slade stood from his chair, undoing the buttons of his jacket and stripping it back before he rolled his shoulders and undid the collar of his shirt for easier movement. As he circled his desk, he held a hand out. "A sword, Miss Smoak. If you please."

She tossed one toward him, and in the same moment that he raised his hand to grab it from the air, she attacked. Leaping forward, she turned mid-air and swung her sword down in a powerful arc. The hand he had outstretched suddenly lost four fingers and the sword fell to the ground at his feet. She landed in a crouch and stood, twisting her own sword around, spraying blood across his carpet.

Hissing as he held his bleeding hand to his chest, he cast a shocked eye toward her.

"Someone once told me to always keep the advantage." Her eyebrow ticked up. "Brawn versus brain. I wrote a paper on this once in high school. Who do you think won out in the end?" She cocked her head at him curiously. "I'm pretty sure those won't grow back, by the way."

Slade grinned then and dropped his hand, letting blood seep down to the floor at his feet. "What's a few fingers, huh?"

Getting into position, Felicity raised the sword up over her head. "I think those are the same you choked me with, so I can't say I miss them much either."

"I'm going to enjoy it when I end you," he growled.

Felicity didn't bother with a reply; instead, she attacked.

She was used to how her body became a weapon now. Sometimes it reacted before her brain caught up to tell her what she was going to do. So when he swiped an arm at her and she flipped herself out of the way, it registered after the fact. When his lunging body chased her, picking up furniture to toss in her direction, tearing out a lamp cord to try and wrap it around her neck to choke her, she kept on the move. Always one step ahead, one move in front of him, anticipating each swipe, each lunge, each attack, she parried them all away and stayed just out of reach.

_"Use his rage against him," Nyssa directed. "Poke the fire until it roars. Let it consume him. And when he is nothing more than a mindless machine, no more than a brute out for blood, _that_ is when you strike. Men, so predictable. He will let his hatred guide him. His anger will be his folly, not his tool. Let him scream and break things. Let him have his tantrum. It will only serve to make him weak. He will think he is stronger, faster, but he is nothing more than an animal. You will be superior. You will keep your head. When he is nothing more than a bull chasing red, you will lead him into your trap." _

The man with the plan began to fade, and in his place was the enraged soldier that lived on that island, deranged and desperate. He chased her, reaching and snarling and desperate to _destroy_. But he never caught her. She mocked him from how close and yet so far she was. She leapt atop his desk, jumping a few feet in the air as he thrust an arm out to get at her legs. As she came back down, she kicked him in the face, satisfied when blood sprayed from his mouth, his head jarred to one side. She leapt over him, flipping mid-air and rolling back to her feet.

Turning to face him once more, she attacked him from behind, landing blow after blow to his back, knocking him forward until he fell to his knees and stumbled his way back up, turning back to engage her again. It was a dance, of sorts. He reached and she ducked, he swiped and she leaned, he punched and attacked and she moved just out of hitting range. For all that he was a large man, he was still graceful, still a soldier, and she had to put every bit of her training to the test. But she got in a few hits, punching him so hard that his nose shattered on impact, even if it did heal all too quickly, and knocking his knees out from beneath him so he landed flat on his back, to name a few. She knew, however, that she would tire long before him, so it was time to stop playing cat and mouse and end it.

He grabbed a lamp, ripping it violently from the wall, the cord whipping around to lash him across his own cheek, and he threw it at her, catching her in the shoulder, the same that he had stabbed three and a half years earlier. She let out a cry of pain and tripped back a step, letting him think he had injured her more than he had. His savage smile told her he was feeling good now, as if he had a bit of an advantage. He came at her again, lunging and swiping. She knew she couldn't let him actually hit her; he was too strong for it not to do serious damage. But she did move a little slower, letting worry cloud her face versus the stoic resolve she'd worn before.

Finally, when he was certain he had her cornered up against the wall, she struck. When he ran forward, she slammed her foot down on the hilt of the sword she'd offered him earlier. She kicked it forward and watched as the momentum from his running and the force of her kick lodged the sword right through his upper stomach, between his ribs and out the other side of him.

_For Oliver_.

His mouth fell open in shock and his feet tripped over themselves.

Without pause, she gave a war cry and lunged, plunging the sword in hand directly through his chest, just as she pulled the other one free of his gut.

Slade fell to his knees in front of her, blood dripping from his lips, and she raised her sword up as one of her hands gripped the hair atop his head to hold him steady.

But he laughed, his pearly white teeth dripping in blood. "I've won," he told her. "You, standing here, are proof of that."

Felicity paused.

"Do you think he'd still love you? Seeing you here, poised to kill. His light. His _pure, _unsullied, saving grace." He sneered up at her. "I win, he loses, and you… you have to go on living. At least _I_ will see her again."

"When you do, ask her if she forgives you for every life you took in her honor. I think you'll be surprised with her answer."

His brow furrowed, a retort on his lips, but Felicity didn't want to hear it.

"Just so we're clear…" she added, "_You_ lose. _I_ win. Game over."

With enviable precision, she swung the killing blow, relieving Slade's head from his shoulders, and dropped it unceremoniously to the floor, staring for a moment as it bounced, rolling to the side, blood seeping into the carpet.

_For Roy_.

Leaning down, she pulled up her pant leg and retrieved her gun from her ankle. She took aim at the slackened face before and shot once, twice, centered on his forehead.

_For Sara. For John_.

Finally, she plunged the remaining sword deep into his shoulder.

_For her_.

It was finished. It was done. Slade was finally dead.

The room was left silent; the abrasively loud commotion of their fight had dwindled down to little more than a buzzing in her ears.

She expected to feel something more. Overwhelming relief, she supposed. But instead, there was just a hollow ache there.

Now, she had no one to chase, no one to make pay for her agony and loss. Nyssa's words suddenly echoed back to her.

What did she have? She wondered.

Because it felt like a lot like nothing…

* * *

Nyssa smiled when she received the box with Slade Wilson's eye patch inside it and a note that said simply, _With honor, -F_

She laughed good and long, and then, _finally_, she let herself cry. For her heart, for Sara, for a love she missed dearly.

A week later, Felicity received a coded email from Nyssa, asking her to pledge allegiance to her, to stand at her side and be a partner of another sort, to become the assassin Nyssa knew she could be.

She politely declined.

Nyssa, although disappointed, accepted her answer, but made sure she knew that it was always open. If Felicity ever wanted a new home, a _different _home, Nyssa would gladly provide it.

* * *

After nearly four years away, Felicity returned to Starling City to find it looked both familiar and foreign.

Verdant had been rebuilt, returned to its former glory and continuing on in the same grand fashion it had before. Felicity made the trek over with a heavy heart.

She found Thea at the bar, going over the books, her head bent, and reading glasses perched on her nose.

"This place looks just like I remember it when it first opened," Felicity called out in greeting. "Talk about a nostalgia rush."

Thea went still, slowly lifting her head, and turned in her seat to finally set eyes on her. She stared at her searchingly, hesitantly, as if she thought she was looking at a ghost.

"You're back," she said, flatly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Do I want to know where you've been?"

"Probably not." Felicity walked toward her slowly, a weird sort of nervousness filling her that she hadn't felt in so long. "Weird question, but is the basement fixed up too, or only the upper levels?"

Thea tipped her head, staring at her curiously. "You mean the basement that had a suspiciously powerful computer set-up and an insane amount of arrows, bows, guns, and bullets in supply? _That _basement."

Whoops, so in the insanity of everything, she'd kind of forgotten to take care of the Arrow cave when she'd gone on her little vendetta. And, apparently, Lance hadn't been able to keep it from Thea. Then again, maybe it was time she knew.

"Plus the medical equipment. Although, last I checked, we definitely needed a new set of paddles for the defibrillator." Felicity shrugged. "Old wiring, comes loose sometimes."

Thea pursed her lips. "He was the Arrow, wasn't he? This whole time. My own brother…" her voice caught. She shook her head and she swallowed back the pain of her newfound knowledge, replacing it with anger. "He was the one who shot Roy. The one who got Roy _killed._"

"Hey!" she snapped, stepping forward, a finger raised. "Slade Wilson killed Roy. I watched it first-hand. Your brother did everything in his power to keep Roy safe. He wasn't… He wasn't supposed to be there." She waved her hands. "That's not the point. The point is that yes, your brother was the vigilante. Oliver… He was different after the island. He had a mission. He… He needed to do this and I know it's confusing and probably really hard for you to accept, but… I'll tell you everything, if that's what you want. I'll tell you how he died that night. How hard he fought to keep this city safe. How—How _desperately _he just wanted you to be okay. Anything you want, Thea. Just ask me and I'll tell you."

She stared at Felicity for a long moment, looking unsure, looking angry and exhausted and not a little sad. "Slade Wilson killed Oliver."

It wasn't a question, not really, but she answered it. "Yes. And Roy and Sara and John Diggle."

"And he…"

"He's dead now." Felicity stood a little taller then, her chin raised, not in pride, no, but as a shield, as a point of holding herself up when she felt like what she did was not completely something honorable.

"H-How? Did you…?" Thea shook her head. "I mean, no offense, but you've always been my brother's kind of geeky girlfriend. You tripped over your feet almost as much as you tripped over your own tongue. So, how did you…? How could you _possibly_…?"

Felicity nodded. "I found someone I knew could train me and I made sure that when I found him, I'd win." She stared at Thea seriously. "I know it's not much. It doesn't bring him back. I… I wish I could. I…" Her lips trembled. "I miss him every day."

Thea blinked back tears. "Me too," she whispered.

Felicity wanted to reach for her, to hug her like she had after those meetings they used to go to, but it felt wrong now. She wasn't who she used to be. She was someone else, someone darker, someone devoid of the light she'd once had, the kind of light that might offer comfort to Thea.

"Will you tell me about him?" Thea wondered.

Felicity's brows furrowed.

"_Not_— Not about how he died. I don't… think I want to know. But… Who he was, with you. The Oliver that wasn't pretending to be who he used to be. The _real _Oliver. The one you knew."

"He was real with you too, Thea. I know it didn't always feel that way. But he tried to be what you needed. He just wanted to keep you safe."

She nodded. "I know. I mean, it's stupid and completely misogynistic of him, but… _I know_." She shrugged. "I just… I want to know him the way you did. I—I want to know all of him. The Arrow side too, so… Tell me about him. Please."

Felicity swallowed tightly. "Okay. I can do that."

Together, they walked to the bar, and Felicity started from the beginning. Not Oliver's, not exactly, but her beginning with him. From his lame stories about spilling a latte on his bullet-riddled laptop. She told Thea as much as she could, leaving out the more intimate parts of their relationship. Sometimes they laughed, sometimes they rolled their eyes, and sometimes they cried. They talked for hours, until stories about Arrow became stories about Oliver and Ollie, a brother and a friend and a man with a good heart.

And when they were finished, Thea poured them each a drink, knocked her glass against Felicity's and said, "We deserve this."

It wasn't shots with Sara, but it was close.

Thea thanked her afterwards, hugging her like she was still a whole, good person, and then she packed up her things and left for home, calling a driver when Felicity insisted that even one drink was too much.

When she was gone, Felicity made her way downstairs to the renovated foundry. Her computers had been replaced with new ones, but Oliver's bows and arrows were the same as they'd been and Digg's guns were safely put away in a rebuilt cabinet. The medical supplies was still there and the salmon ladder stood tall. She looked around and knew that there was a lot of work to do. She would have to rebuild her set-up, reinsert herself into the crime pipeline that was the underworld of Starling City, and figure out if handling Oliver's bows were as familiar to her as the ones Nyssa had her practice with.

It wasn't going to be easy, and, despite being a whole new foundry, familiar ghosts still lingered, but… it was a start.

* * *

Weeks later, standing atop a ledge in leather, wearing a mask, and donning a hood with far too much symbolism, Felicity looked out on the city, a bow hanging from her fingers.

"Is this who you are now then?" Lance asked her, standing behind her on the roof of his building, hands on his hips. "You take off for four years, kill Slade Wilson in Belgium, and now what? You show back up here to take on the big green mantle?"

She turned to face him. "Now I do what we were always doing. Fight the corrupt, save the innocent, serve out justice. It's a tried and true tale, don't you think? Maybe over-sung, but still important."

"You're not a killer." His shifted his feet, looking antsy. "Or you weren't, before all this."

"What's the difference between a killer and a hero?" She raised an eyebrow. "I used to ask myself that a lot. What made him different? What made what he did okay? Sometimes I lied to myself and sometimes I didn't. The truth is, Oliver was both. He killed to survive and then he killed because he believed those people deserved death. Was he wrong? Sure. Sometimes. But that's the difficult part, isn't it? We're not supposed to play judge and jury. Or, well, you're not. After all, you've got a badge and a pledge to uphold the law, which is pretty strict about that whole killing thing… Me, though, I wear the hood now. I think it casts a bit of a morally grey shade to everything, don't you?"

He shook his head, lips pursed in that fatherly, disapproving way of his. "It shouldn't. Some things are black and white."

"Maybe they are, or maybe we wish they were." She shrugged. "Here's what I know, you have a problem in the Glades, a problem that can't always be solved with an arrest warrant. So I'm going to do you a favor. I'm going to watch over this city and I'll do what I can to keep it safe. I might not be as strong or as fast as Oliver, but I'm stronger and faster than your police force. And I'll do what I have to, even when it doesn't fit into those black and white boxes."

Lance stared at her a long moment, his brow furrowed. "I can't let you kill."

"I don't expect you to. As far as I'm concerned, Slade Wilson was my one and only victim. But things happen and sometimes people surprise you. I won't go looking to kill anybody, but if it happens, I won't be surprised to hear you knocking on my door." She half-smiled. "It might be good, to have a Jiminy Cricket around to keep me in line… I've seen what it does to people when they don't have one, and I don't want to become that."

He sighed, long and heavy. "It's a lot to take on. Heavy burden for one person's shoulders… You sure you can handle that?"

She tipped her head and smiled faintly. "Who said I was alone?"

With that, she fell back over the edge, cutting through the air so swiftly that she could almost convince herself she was flying. And then she wrapped her fingers around the zipline and swung herself back to safety. She'd by lying if she said she didn't, occasionally, think about not grabbing onto that lifeline some days. The grief was still deep, it still bled when she let her mind wander to Oliver or John, Sara or Roy. And maybe she would never truly heal, maybe there would always be that huge, gaping hole where her heart should be. She didn't know. But this was her trying to mend it even just a little bit.

She made her way back to Verdant and went in through the back, unstrapping her bow from her back and flipping her hood off.

"I don't want to point fingers, but somebody got a little melodramatic on a rooftop tonight," Thea said as she spun the chair to face Felicity, an eyebrow raised. "Maybe we should cut back on the speeches, huh?"

"I don't know. They were a favorite of Oliver's."

"Yeah, well, he was a little overdramatic, too." Pushing up from her chair, Thea walked toward her. "So? You think he'll help you?"

"Lance?" She nodded. "I just need to prove to him that I'm worth helping. That I'm not going to go on a killing spree the first chance I get."

Crossing her arms over her chest, Thea nodded. "Speaking of, when exactly are you going to start training me for something other than tech support?"

"Don't knock it," Felicity warned. "That seat holds a lot of meaning, and for good reason."

Rolling her eyes, Thea held her hands up in surrender. "Not complaining about my current role, just hoping I'll get a chance to kick a little bad guy ass. _So?_ A general time frame, maybe."

Felicity gave a short nod. "Sure. We'll start with slapping water and see where that gets you." With a grin, she walked off to shower.

"Slapping _what?_" she heard Thea mutter behind her.

She wondered how pissed Oliver would be that she brought Thea into the fold.

But, the dead don't speak.

She missed his voice enough that just hearing him yell at her would be a blessing.

* * *

Felicity lasted much longer than she expected.

Long enough to train Thea to become 'Speedy,' her sidekick in some respects, but her partner in most. They held each other up when the grief seemed to swamp them, they guarded each other's backs when the enemy got close, and they stood against adversity when everyone seemed to bend to it.

But, as all stories do, Felicity's eventually found its end.

She didn't die on the battlefield, she made it home first.

The foundry was where she spent most of her time. There was a makeshift room in the back that she put to good use. Her apartment had been there when she returned, courtesy of Thea, though she thought it was probably in an effort to preserve as much of Oliver's stuff as she could rather than because she expected Felicity to come back. Still, Felicity couldn't stay there, and her life revolved so much around being Green Arrow that she didn't see the point in separating anything anymore. Oh, she worked, freelance tech work when she needed money, but, for the most part, she lived in the foundry. Oliver had left her his trust find in his will, but Felicity rarely used it. Her freelance work paid for the electricity she burned up downstairs, making sure Thea didn't have to foot the bill, and bought her what food she needed. But there wasn't much more in terms of expenses.

Felicity could admit, when drunk on tequila and only in the presence of Thea, that her life had spiralled out of control some time ago and was now far too focused on crime fighting and not enough on actually living. It was hard, though. The only real loss she'd known before her team was when her father had walked out on her. Her mother was no peach, keeping her distance from Felicity after her husband packed up and left, as if waiting for the day her daughter too would abandon her. Sometimes Felicity wondered if her mother even noticed her nearly four year absence from the world. But comparing the voluntary disappearance of her father to the loss of her team was like comparing apples and oranges, both fruit, most generally round, but still very different.

When Roy had died, it had hurt. He was a friend and a teammate and he hadn't deserved to die like that. There was still so much life left in him, so much more he could have done, so much he deserved to do and see and have.

When Sara had been killed, that hurt became an ache. It burrowed under her heart and squeezed every time she felt the distinct lack of her fellow female in the lair. She missed having a girlfriend, having someone who understood, having a buddy she could get drinks with and talk honestly to about life alongside Oliver Queen.

When she lost John, she lost a part of herself. She lost the friend that held her up on her worst days and the confidant who told her she was more than she knew. She lost the voice in her ear and the hand steadying her in a world that always seemed a little uneven where her mouth was unfiltered. He was her rock. He was her best friend. And when she lost him, she lost one very strong tether to what she saw as good and right in the world.

When Oliver died in her arms, her heart leaked out of her chest and painted itself in the hollow smile that stared back at her. She had loved before, but never like that. Loss might have brought them together, finally, but it was love that bound them. There were mornings that she woke and she looked at him and she believed the world could be better. Nights when hearing his heart under her ear was like a promise that they would be okay, they would survive, they would triumph. And holding his hand, feelings his fingers tangle with hers, she knew she was home. Sometimes she wondered what it might have been like if Oliver had won. If Slade had died that night at the club, as it crumbled all around them. If she had been able to kill him with that sword he gave her, so certain that she would never be able to truly win against him. Would they have found peace eventually? Would they have gotten married like they wanted to? Would they have had beautiful blond babies with her brains and his courage? Would they have stood, as partners, against everything and everyone that stepped up to fill Slade Wilson's hollow shoes?

She thought they would.

She hoped so.

All she really knew was that five years after avenging her team and building a new one with Thea and a driven Laurel Lance taking on the mantle of her fallen sister, Felicity still loved him with every breath left in her body.

Laurel got her back to the foundry and laid her out on the steel table she'd become all too familiar with over the years.

Delirious from blood loss and the pain, Felicity looked up at Thea's concerned face and swore she saw John for a moment, pulling on a pair of latex gloves before he got started. When she turned her head, her bleary eyes found Laurel, only she was still in her blonde wig, and Felicity blindly reached a hand out. "Sara?"

Laurel took her hand and squeezed, blood squishing between their fingers. "It's Laurel, Felicity. Sara… Sara's gone, remember?"

Tears bit at her eyes, her lips wobbling and she turned her head up to stare at the ceiling. A ceiling that had fallen on her one too many times. A laugh bubbled up in her throat and broke on her lips, blood spraying down her chin.

"She's losing too much. I can't staunch it," Thea exclaimed worriedly. "We need to do something. We need to call someone."

"My dad. I'll get him here. He'll bring her to the hospital," Laurel said, already walking away, her phone out.

Thea leaned over the table, her face coming back into Felicity's view. "Hey," she said softly, squeezing Felicity's shoulder. "It's going to be okay, all right?"

But Felicity could see the tears already clinging to Thea's eyelashes, she could feel as her body began to give up on her. Shaking her head, she said, "You're going to be okay." She reached up, searching for Thea's hand, and finally found it, squeezing tight. "I know you will, Thea. You're strong and smart and you shoot a bow better than I do."

"Don't say that," Thea whispered. "Please, Felicity. Don't die on me. I can't lose you, too. Please."

Tears dribbled down from the corners of her eyes as she smiled. "He'd be so, _so_ proud of you… He'd be pissed too and tell you not to do it, it's too dangerous, blah blah, macho brother crap, but he'd be proud. Of who you are and what you do and how brave you are." Felicity shook her hand and nodded. "_I'm_ proud of you, Thea."

Thea's face crumbled, tears streaking down her cheeks. "I can't do this alone," she cried.

"You're not alone." Her breath hitched. "You've got Laurel and you can call Barry, if you need him…" She blinked, trying to focus as her brain started to fritz out on her. She blinked rapidly. "Hey, you were making connections in Metropolis, right? With that guy who likes blue tights?"

"Superman?" she laughed, rolling her eyes.

"Yeah, him. And Bruce will help you, I know he will."

Thea scoffed. "He only helped out because he had a crush on you. He's usually a raging ass with a serious brooding issue."

Felicity snorted. "Sound familiar?"

Thea shook her head, squeezing her eyes closed. "I miss him. I miss him so much. I don't want to miss you too. I'm so _tired _of missing people."

"So don't… Don't miss me." Felicity pulled Thea's hand up to her face and pressed her cheek to it. "I'm not sad, okay? I'm not. I'm tired. I've been doing this for a long time. I'm ready."

"I'm not," Thea choked.

"Promise me you'll be okay." Felicity stared up at her searchingly. "Promise me that if anything happens, if you ever think it's too much, you'll get out. Save yourself. Hang up the red suit and do something mundane, like run a nightclub."

Thea gave her a watery smile. "I promise."

Felicity nodded, blinking a few times. "Good." God, she was dizzy and so, so tired.

"Felicity," Thea worried. "Just a little longer, please? Stay with me."

She smiled then. "He used to say that… in the mornings… Stay with me, Felicity. Stay home… He never… never wanted to go to work…" Her hand went limp against Thea's, falling back against the table.

"Felicity… _Felicity!_"

She stared above, a ringing in her ears, and slowly Thea's face faded from her view.

And then a light. A bright light. And suddenly it wasn't Thea she was looking at, it was Digg, and he was grinning at her.

"Hey," he said, or so his lips read, but she didn't hear him, not at first.

She blinked up at him, her brow furrowed, and turned her head to the left.

A smiling Sara and a smirking Roy greeted her, walking toward her in what seemed like slow-motion.

"Hey, sleepyhead. We thought you'd never wake up," Sara said, her voice coming through a filter, like her ears were water-logged.

"I thought we agreed on Sleeping Beauty?" Roy snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. "Y'know, I think you made us all look bad with that bad-ass chick routine. Nobody's gonna remember me when they've got a hot chick in green leather running around taking out bad guys left, right, and center."

Felicity frowned. _What?_ What was happening?

"Well, I thought the hood looked pretty good on you. But I could be biased. It's not the first time I've seen you in my suit…"

Felicity's heart clenched violently as her head swung to the right to find Oliver grinning down at her. Gently, his hand swept over her forehead, pushing her hair back, before it slid down to cup her cheek. He leaned over her, staring searchingly into her eyes. "Hey…"

Tears burned her eyes, her hand shaking as it raised to cover his. It felt real. It felt warm and heavy on her skin and, God, she could actually _smell _him. "Oliver?" she choked out.

He leaned down, resting his forehead against hers, and she whimpered, reaching up to drag her fingers through his hair, curving them around his ear, as she sucked in shaky, gasping breaths.

"_Shh_…" he said soothingly. "Hey, it's okay… I've got you."

Tears leaked out the corners of her eyes and she felt her whole body shake. "Is this a— a _fever_ dream?" she wondered. "Or maybe one of those 'about to die' things where really it's just some chemicals going off in my brain making me think I'm one step closer to heaven."

Oliver drew his head back a little, giving her some space, but he left his hand on her face, his thumb swiping away tears and stroking her cheek.

"You really think any of us were heaven-bound?" Digg scoffed. "Pretty sure the tally we've all racked up says we were headed for the brimstone and fire end of things."

"I'd like to point out that I never actually killed anyone," Roy piped up. "I'm _surprisingly _the most innocent one here…"

"Innocent isn't the first word I'd use to describe you," Sara dismissed.

"Before those two start bickering…" Digg looked down at her. "What do you _think _this is?"

Felicity looked around at all of them, at her team, her_ family_, that she'd missed so much, at her best friend who was holding tight to one of her hands, at Oliver, who was staring down at her with that soft, loving look of his, half-smiling as he watched her come to a conclusion.

She turned her head to kiss his palm, just as callused as she remembered it, and let out a soft sigh, before answering simply, "_Home_."

* * *

Thea buried Felicity next to Oliver at the manor, ignoring her mother's protests to the contrary.

Sometimes, when her days were long and trying, she would go and sit between their marble gravestones to vent. She wasn't sure if she believed in heaven or hell or an afterlife or whatever, but she liked to think that they were together. All of them. Roy, Sara, John Diggle, Felicity and Oliver. She wasn't sure and she'd never really have any proof, but she trusted that feeling in her heart that told her maybe they were, somehow. And it could've been a way to sandbag against the grief, it could've been her way of avoiding the harsh reality that too many people she'd loved were gone, but it was better than wallowing in that loss until she was little more than a shell of who she was. She'd seen her brother do that, seen Felicity do the same, and she didn't want to repeat those mistakes.

So, she let herself hope for something more, something happier, and at night, when the city sang with danger and crime, calling out for a hero, she donned her red suit and she went out to meet it. Pausing by the case that commemorated both Arrow and Green Arrow, she would press her fingers to her lips and then to the glass where the infamous green hood lay as a sign of what they stood for, what she wanted to uphold. And together, alongside Laurel, they would fight against the injustice that threatened Starling City.

Wherever her brother was, she hoped he was proud, and she hoped he knew that she loved him and she was proud of him, for both the man he was and the man he became. Maybe in death, he had found his peace and, with it, Felicity.

Seated on a bike as she sped through the Glades, looking for her next adventure, Thea Queen met the world with a free and open heart, gratefully empty of the vengeance and rage that had clouded those of too many before her.

She was the beginning of a new era, and, for that, her brother truly would be proud.

{**end**.}

* * *

**author's note**: _This whole thing ended up being way, way longer than I'd originally written it. But the editing process usually leads to adding in more scenes, hence why there's so much more with Nyssa (orginally, I just had a the bits of her dialogue intermixed with the slade/felicity show down but then I wanted to write more of her). I like the end result though. _

_I had a number of people hoping for an Olicity baby, but I couldn't honestly write Felicity as someone who went into a fight while pregnant or knew that she had a child at home that she might have to completely abandon if she ended up dying in the fight. It's just not her. And, while I appreciate the symbolism and wanting a piece of Oliver to continue forward, I always knew that, in the end, Felicity would die. She might have seen herself as the sidekick, but she was the protagonist all along. Her happy ending was that, in death, she reunited with her family and left behind a new legacy to carry on her original message of hope. The previous team were marred by too much pain and death and loss, and while Thea has been too, she takes on a different approach when she dons the leather. She saw what holding onto those things did to her brother and then to Felicity. In knowing the truth and having the training to help people and fight back, she becomes a new breed of hero, one that can see hope on the horizon and, instead of avenging the deaths before her, she tries to be someone they would be proud to have stand in their place._

_I hope you're satisfied with the ending. I know some people wanted an alternate happy ending, maybe it was all a dream or something to that effect. To be honest, I don't like writing those. Every once in a while, I will. But for the really hard-hitting ones, the ones that ring true to the gritty sincerity that life is not all roses and death is inevitable, I like the impact it leaves behind. _

_In any case, thank you all for reading what I've written. I hope I did it all justice and that you enjoyed the imagery of it, if nothing else. _

_I do plan to update a more fluffy Olicity piece soon, in an effort to make up for all this angst! _

_Thank you all for reading. Please, do leave a review! They're my lifeblood and I'm really very proud of how far this story has come and would love to hear how you felt in reading the final chapter and how it all came together in the end. In fact, it would be totally and absolutely amazing if you guys could help me get this story to 300 reviews. It'd be a personal best for how few chapters and I would just be really proud of that. So, if you could, that'd be amazing, but there is, of course, no pressure. _

_- _**Lee | Fina**


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